Revelations
by Inconspicuous Acuity
Summary: BG1. Vendice's alignment shifts at every turn, along with her mood, as she battles insanity's voice in her head. Gorion had managed to temper that, but he is gone now and she stands before a time of important change with new companions.
1. Prologue

* * *

_He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not_

_become a monster... when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also _

_gazes into you... – _Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

**Prologue**

It was a night like any other... in a city like any other.

Here and there, a soul would beg to differ, a mind would dare to think on its own. But does it matter? Is it worth thinking and feeling through your own perspective, in your own fashion, when it's what the world sees that forms the concepts? For truly we live in a dimension of the common eye, a place where people revel in the easily obtained comfort of thinking as one.

We feel safe and more than thankful to be part of the world and judge as it does; saves us a lot of effort, doesn't it? Until one day – or night, you'd be surprised how little it matters in the face of revelation – we find that it no longer fills our needs. We are one and make requests from life accordingly; yet now, late as it is, you realize that there are requests you would make which the others of the 'one' do not share, nor care to share. The burden of being an individual is frightfully heavy.

So. The night was magnificent and beautiful and it bathed the city only to reaffirm its splendid brilliance. True, for the 'one'. Not for those unfortunate enough to have been forced into becoming individuals, into seeing the world through a slightly different window from that of how those who led the masses described it. Society, in turn, had clung to its beliefs, for, though hollow, they were comfortable and reassuring; it had cast them and their other window out, refusing to even acknowledge their existence. Indeed, then, the city was brilliant; but not for those who had no roof above their heads, no food to feed to their children, no more than rags to cover their battered bodies. The night was beautiful, but not for those who were abused in the streets under the cover of darkness: mugged, robbed, raped, murdered.

Not for our man out there, on the anonymous roof. 'A' roof to the world, it had become 'THE' roof to him when he had sought refuge there. Suddenly, he no longer cared about any of his common points with the 'one'; he knew only that he wished to live. He didn't care about his knighthood and his multitude of titles; his fancy armor had been reduced to the weight of iron slowing his moves as he had climbed up the tower's countless stairs. Weary beyond measure it had made him, barely able to push the door open and drag himself onto the terrace-like roof. His last remaining flicker of strength was expended to close the door, but it did little to protect him from the pursuer.

Though in vain, the man scuttled away, seeking sanctuary with the small iron fence marking the roof's edges. As soon as he had done so, a clawed hand shredded through the door's wood in a move that made the solid boards appear like toys in front of a god's wrath, judging by the ease with which they were dismissed to a side. The figure that stood in the frame was nearly seven feet tall, dark and plated from head to toes in a set of heavily spiked armor that seemed to draw breath along with its owner. Only the eyes stood out and those looked human no more than the rest, for they appeared as a glowing pair of yellow orbs.

What peasants and commoners saw daily and admired as a brilliant knight and guard of the city and what any teenage boy who was learning to fight dreamed to become instantly shrank into insignificance when the dark one approached. No longer a warrior was what he had in front of him, but a simple mortal man entitled to fear for his life. Not a proud, radiant knight who beamed in his saddle, but a weakling who crawled on all fours and clung to the fence as if salvation could come from there.

"No, you can't!" his strangled voice, a hollow reminder of the majesty with which he proclaimed orders to the public, pleaded out in despair. Not for a moment did he cease looking for a way out, a way to live, as he spoke.

"I will be the last," boasted the plated figure's grim voice in reply. "You will go first." He laughed, a cold laughter that was his alone, for to any other it would have only sounded like a sinister premonition.

"There are others, I can show you," the knight-fugitive rushed in, clinging to what he saw as a chance. "Please. Please!"

_Knowledge._ Knowledge is power. Knowledge, or lack thereof, is the essence, the base upon which all else is built. Rarely does it come knocking on anyone's door. But what is the offer of a foundation to he who has built already... or at least soundly believes he has built? Nothing. Behold how a simple difference of perspective can turn the most precious of golden treasures into the mere duplicate of an already existent grain of sand in the hourglass. Expendable. Let it be expended, then, let it buy a moment of satisfaction, of triumph... a moment of the power it speaks of.

So must have thought the dark one and such must have been his reasoning when he chose to ignore the knight's pleas and advanced his final step on him. With a heavy, dry impact, the clawed hand, the same that had cut through the door with such ease, hit the man's throat; iron-clad fingers clutched and squeezed and the figure was lifted, breath draining out of it as air from a balloon. He gurgled incoherently and could not even squirm, his body as limp as a helpless puppet's and his eyes wide with the last moment's agony.

The dark one lifted him above the fence with no more an effort than that made to walk or breathe, but he did not drop him off. He seemed to enjoy watching the life seep out of the body drop by drop, in a tantalizing and unstoppable process, until there would be none left. Armor and yellow-eyed man together looked awfully disappointed when that moment came and they had to finally let go, to give up on the feeling of power and superiority murder brought to one's senses.

Again, he could have just thrown the body away, but no. The already dead knight came to crash against the fence with such force that a portion was easily bent and dislocated. The fresh corpse fell through the newly created gap, all the way down to the worn cobble of the street, a silent, powerless witness who had no doubt seen countless other crimes committed. Armor and bones crashed into an amalgam of sounds, while blood flowed forth through every opening it could find, staining the stone with a crimson puddle.

The next day, a body would be found in the street, just another out of so many in the eye of the 'one'. Another soldier, maybe one who happened to know the victim personally, would be too lazy in his investigation to even bother checking on anything; the marks on the man's neck would not be discovered, nor would the damaged fence above, and the official decree would go along "the fool jumped off the roof". Collective memory would carry this deed through a couple of days more, until nothing would be left to comment or laugh about, then all would move on. Truly, like it always happens, the murderer would get more attention than the unfortunate victim itself.

By the time the yellow-eyed figure will have become famous, bards and their tales would not even remember there were victims. Only those who survived for the grand event itself ever got the honor of being remembered; not those nameless figures far away in the background, men who had contributed in vain.

Life always moves on for society. No matter what happens to this or that other man. To me. To you.


	2. Delirium Reality

_**Disclaimer:** (This should have probably gone in the beginning of the prologue, but anyway.) The Forgotten Realms, original Baldur's Gate storyline, locations and NPCs included, are the official property of Wizards of the Coast Inc. and I have no legal rights over any of it. All modifications and deviations from the original products contained in this story belong to the author (Me, go figure!) and... well, can be used without my consent, but it would be nice if permission was asked for first._

_**Author's Notes:** I figured you might like to have a look at my in-game Vendice's character sheet, from the saved game I'm using along this story, so you'll find a freshly-started game screenshot here (You'll have to remove the spaces before and after the first two dots and add an underscore between Inconspicuous and Acuity. Sorry, the site eats the link otherwise.): _i110 . photobucket . com/albums/n92/InconspicuousAcuity/Baldr005.jpg . _If you're wondering about the BG2-ish interface and character class kit, I am playing Baldur's Gate Trilogy at this time; in short, it's a WeiDU engine MOD that converts BG1 with TotSC and all and attaches it to BG2 with ToB, in the proper place, so that you can play through it all as one big game. I'd ask you to forget about the skald part for now, though, she's just a simple bard at the beginning of the story. ;)_

_One rather odd request. Let me know if you think it's too loaded; I've been working to recreate the atmosphere and places, having in mind this is the exposition chapter, but I might have overdone it. Thanks._

* * *

_Reality is a question of perspective; the further you get from the past,_

_the more concrete and plausible it seems -- but as you approach _

_the present, it inevitably seems incredible._ - Salman Rushdie

* * *

**  
CHAPTER ONE**

**Delirium Reality**

Time always seemed to stand still in Candlekeep; it felt almost as if the world could vanish entirely in the blink of an eye and the quiet fortress with its isolationist monks and clifftop base would still be there, unchanged. Nothing ever happened inside the old walls. Despite the renown of the library in the center, despite trying to pose as something more, Candlekeep was but a small coastal town where everyone knew everyone and everything the others did, where you couldn't keep a secret for longer than two hours and where trivial daily matters were all that counted. Even the visitors who came to study the library's vast collection of old books and scrolls were mostly solitary scholars and hedonistic dreamers, more than happy to blend in with the local peace and quiet. So, as Vendice had convinced herself a long time ago, nothing special ever did happen in the Keep.

_Of course stuff happens!_

The permanently indignant impish voice in her head had devoted its very existence, which Vendice could not explain anyway, to contradicting and mocking her at every turn. The young girl tolerated it and always had. On the one hand, there wasn't a way she could get rid of it. On the other hand, it was the only thing that made her special, prevented her from turning into Winthrop the Innkeeper, Hull the Guard or some other boring, simple-minded Candlekeep resident.

Vendice rolled her eyes. "No, it doesn't," she muttered. The girl sighed – bad idea; it forced her to inhale deeply afterwards and a sizeable amount of the dust in the air invaded her lungs. Coughing severely, she cursed the rural setting once again; an urban warehouse would have had a floor of stone, while this one's walls surrounded a patch of leveled dirt. Irritated, she continued to sweep the floor with the old broom, thankful this one had a long stick for a handle, unlike the small one Reevor had given her last time; sweeping the floor had left her back aching most unpleasantly then.

Her moves directed the small body of a dead rat toward the pile of them in a corner, by the open mouth of a sack, while the screechy voice began its ordeal anew. _Things do happen!_ it insisted. _You've returned Phlydia's lost book... for the third time just this week! You found a cure for Dreppin's diseased cow, the lovely Nessa._ It stopped abruptly to snicker as it rummaged through her brain for more information about her doings of the day and the girl bore through it stoically. _Oh! And you've retrieved old Firebead's scroll from Tethtoril and Hull's forgotten sword from the barracks! Plus, this is your last chore for the day. Then you can go help Imoen with her own!_

Imoen. The girl was the closest thing to a sister that Vendice had; and she was very annoying. Wait – where had the last part come from? That wasn't true, Vendice liked Imoen and they were close. "Oh, yes, I'm a veritable heroine!" she exclaimed mockingly, trying to concentrate and forget about the ambiguous moment. "With all that, I have surely saved Candlekeep from death and destruction!"

_Death and destruction?_ the voice sneered in her head. _You're so poetic, aren't you? Kid's fantasies, wanna-be adventuress, eh? Well, you should write a novel!_

Vendice paused with sweeping the floor and looked to see if there were any more of the rats she had previously killed to add to the pile. By then, the dust was so dense that tears had begun to well up in her eyes and she could barely see anything. Sighing, she gave up and placed the broom against the wall, refraining from the taking of any other 'inspired' deep breaths. Reevor wasn't going to like it if she had omitted any dead rats, but she was sick of the place and through with it for the day. "I do write things," she finally reminded the voice. "Ballads, poems. You know, what bards usually do. Not that I find much inspiration around here."

The voice would have found some manner of mockery to respond with, she was sure, but it had no time. Just then, the warehouse's door swung wide open and in stepped a distressed Gorion. The old white-bearded mage, a reputed Harper (How had he managed to keep THAT secret from the pack of townsfolk?), was Vendice's foster father. He had taken her in when she was barely a baby; the mage had always been kind and patient with the irascible and moody girl and had taught her much, as well as told her many tales. One thing, however, he had never disclosed: the identity of her real parents. Vendice had always assumed he didn't know or something, although Imoen and Winthrop seemed to think otherwise.

The sight of the old man, however, was far from comforting at that particular moment. He was deathly pale and more preoccupied than ever, enough to worry Vendice from the very beginning. He didn't allow for the girl to speak, though, gesturing quickly for silence as he approached.

"Here you are, child!" his soft, caring voice echoed through the warehouse. He gave a furtive look to the pile of rats when he nearly stepped on it, but stopped near his adopted daughter.

"I'm helping around, as always," she informed him, beaming proudly when her eyes locked on his. The persistent concern on his face, however, did nothing but increase her own, well-hidden worries.

Normally, Gorion would have encouraged her good intentions with praise for such hard work. Now, he just took her hand quickly. "Child," he said gravely, handing her a pouch of what was obviously gold, judging by the weight and feel. "This is as much as I can spare at the moment. I want you to go to Winthrop's and buy a sword, maybe some armor if you think you can manage."

"Father," Vendice protested, just about as confused as she could ever get. "What is going on?"

"I want you to come with me on my next expedition in the mountains," he assured her it was nothing she should really worry about, "It requires that we depart urgently, that's all." Gorion smiled as best he could and patted her on the shoulder. "Be quick about it; I'll be waiting at the library."

With that, the old man let go of her and shuffled away before she could even blink, not to mention ask more questions. A baffled Vendice hurried to grab the sack and sweep it over the floor, mouth held wide open, thus managing to ingeniously get the rats inside without touching them. Then, she pulled it shut and headed out.

Reevor was standing by the door, taking mighty swigs of ale out of a mug and waiting for her to finish the job. The dwarf had always been afraid of rodents, which was most amusing for Vendice.

"Deed's done," the half-elven girl announced proudly, tossing the sack at his feet in a gentle fall.

"And here is your payment," the dwarf replied, still trying to look morose despite his obvious relief. He handed her five shiny gold pieces, which she stuffed away with the others, in the pouch she had received from Gorion. "Don't spend it all in one place!" advised Reevor all-knowingly, then he continued to mutter something about glorious battles.

Vendice smirked as she walked away. Something was finally happening!

* * *

"Come to visit your old pal Winthrop, have ye?" the middle-aged portly man asked as he dabbed at his sweaty brow with a worn handkerchief.

Vendice propped a hand on the counter and used its temporary support to casually toss herself on top, managing not to pull down more than one goblet, which her other hand caught halfway through its fall. She smiled girlishly as she lay back against the wall and crossed one leg over the other most charmingly. Winthrop glared and snatched his goblet from her, satisfied only when the object was safely deposited on a table behind him.

"Dear Winthrop," Vendice began matter-of-factly while trying to call upon the snobby exclusive air some of the rare noble visitors had. "I need to buy a sword." She had counted her gold coins carefully, her earnings for the day added to Gorion's sum, since she had given up on those sweets and shirt she was going to buy. Her pouch contained a total of 120 pieces, a number of which she was particularly proud.

The innkeeper grinned as he skipped back over to her side. "Sure thing," he said shrugging. "But first, don't forget the 5000 gold piece..."

"...book entrance fee," Vendice finished for him dryly. "I know; I've heard you tried this on Firebead the other day."

Winthrop had always been a huge kidder, but he didn't change his tricks often enough for the way rumor traveled in Candlekeep. And as if that wasn't enough, Imoen had caught on the same taste for jokes from the innkeeper. 'What a bunch of losers,' Vendice thought to herself as Winthrop's enthusiastic smirk faded into disappointment. _They are NOT!_ the pesky little voice corrected promptly. 'Fine, they aren't! ... Actually, I don't know why I thought that? I like them.' _They ARE losers._ 'Will you decide for something already?' _Will you?_ The taunting snicker was so annoying.

Vendice growled. "Listen, Mr. Superiority..." Her words died down as soon as she realized she had grabbed a glass and was holding it up for a throwing weapon. She inhaled deeply and put it back down as she faced Winthrop's distressed look.

"What are you doing?" the innkeeper asked, staring at her in awe.

An excuse. A plausible lie. Anything! She searched frantically. _The noble!_ screeched the voice. 'The noble!' she gasped in relief, on a mental level. Her eyes were drawn to an adjacent room by a will that did not fully belong to her; the door was open and she could see the extravagantly dressed man and his no less pompous wife.

"I'm sorry," Vendice excused herself to Winthrop, pointing that way. "Those snobs always get on my nerves."

"Ya gave me a good scare there!" the innkeeper said, making the handkerchief into a fan, then he grinned mischievously. "Ya got me with that one; you'd make a great actress in some city theater!" He laughed heartily and then, seeing she had remained silent, he poked her arm. "It was a good act, kid!"

Vendice nodded complacently and smiled. 'I wasn't acting!' she thought dismally. 'I could have hurt him!' _Tee hee!_ screeched the voice. _Fun!_ She shook her head, as if to chase the last traces of amusement. "So, how about that sword?" she put the conversation back on track.

"Yes, yes!" Winthrop remembered. He scanned the room – no one seemed to be needing anything at the moment. Not that he had many clients at that time of the day. "Let's go rummage through those crates in the most recent shipment; see if you like anything."

The innkeeper turned and headed for the backroom. Vendice sighed profusely; this was so hard to control without Gorion or Parda around. She dusted herself off the counter and gave chase.

* * *

She felt quite rightfully qualified. For the role of 'village idiot'. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground as she walked, imagining the locals scoff behind her back and then run off to tell others. Of course, had she actually looked at the people, she would have noticed they were only curious and nothing more.

_Yes, you must look ridiculous wearing that chain mail,_ the voice was only too quick to agree and then tease. _Makes you look fat; and it's not even comfortable! And besides, you're a simple girl, not suited for that kind of thing._

Vendice wasn't even really paying attention to what it said anymore. She just wanted to get out of sight and meet up with Gorion as soon as possible, but not before she had outdone herself, as usual. She had heard Gorion mention how healing potions saved his life in many of his tales, especially those that featured no clerics or druids. Of course, though, the Temple wouldn't give any for free and she had no more money. So, the girl had made it her current objective to reach the Priest's Quarter and obtain the potions from her former teacher, Parda.

It wasn't far, just on the North side of the keep, and she was there in a few minutes only to find the door wide open. 'How unusual,' she thought.

_Someone got in there and murdered them all! Ha ha! Serves them fools well enough, for being pansies that can't fight!_ "Shut up," muttered a morose Vendice as she stepped over door mat and threshold together.

The Priest's Quarter only had one chamber, the one she was in now; it wasn't large, but the lack of any furniture other than a bed, a table and a few chairs made it look roomy. A small carpet lay in the middle, in front of the only window, probably where the priest knelt in the morning and evening for his prayers.

Parda, one of the librarian monks, was in charge of preparing the potions and scrolls sold at the Temple. He wasn't there when Vendice entered, but the girl did find a man inside, one who was wearing a red tunic and looked foreign. She hadn't seen him before, that much was certain.

"Oh, goodie, goodie!" the man cried out when he saw her. "I've gone and found ye first!" He took two huge steps and was in front of her immediately. "You are the ward of Gorion, no doubt?"

Vendice blinked at the unexpected turn of events. _Maybe he's got news to give you, hmm?_ came the high-pitched voice's judgment. _On the other hand, maybe he just did away with the pansy priest and stuffed the body under the bed?_

"Oh, do shut up!" Vendice snapped, too late to realize she was doing it out loud. She looked for a way to mend it quickly. "Err... please? I'm in a hurry and don't want people to know I'm here. Don't tell anyone!"

She had played her part perfectly, but all the man did was grin and produce a dagger from a small pocket in the tunic's side. "Yes, yes," he dismissed her simulated concern excitedly. "It so happens that your head's worth alotta money to someone. Nothing personal, you see, but I have to..."

His voice died away into an indefinite groan of pain and a choking fit when one of Vendice's two newly purchased swords was stabbed through his belly. The girl's usually pretty, half-elven features were distorted by a fit of rage she could not explain; she was just... feeling it. She had just felt like attacking that man. Just felt like killing him before he could kill her.

But he wasn't dead yet, just gasping for air. "You shouldn't have talked so much," she said viciously, plunging the blade even deeper into his body. "You should have ACTED." Deeper. The man was shaken by a horrible spasm as he reflexively clutched at the blade, but he fell dead all too soon and went completely limp.

The body slipped away, blood spilling all over as he collapsed and edged away along the sword which a frozen, wide-eyed Vendice who had just realized what she had done held motionlessly. The thud the corpse gave when it hit the floor resounded ten times louder in Vendice's imagination than it actually did in reality and the girl started abruptly and dropped her sword as you would a disgusting, slimy snake.

_You know,_ the voice in her head didn't share the dismay. _I take that back about the chain mail. It's a wonderful, wonderful thing. This fool should have been wearing some too._

Vendice gaped uncontrollably, shivering with a cold that wasn't out there, just inside of her; she felt her knees buckle beneath her. "What have I done?" she murmured dismally. "I've killed someone!"

It took her a while to realize she was hearing other voices than the local resident in her head, who continued to ramble about armor. By the time she did, the sound of footsteps associated with those other voices was more than clear; the very next moment, two monks came in. Vendice turned to look at them, the blood having flushed from her features and her lips moving as if she wanted to speak, though no words came out.

She knew both of them; they had taught her many things during the years and she had been eager to learn. The yellow-robed one was Parda, the monk she had come there seeking in the first place, while the slightly older green-robed one was named Karan.

"What happened here, child?" one of them asked; she wasn't lucid enough yet to tell which.

"I didn't know murder made one feel so..." _Powerful! Powerful! Say powerful!_ "...miserable." Vendice sighed and then collapsed into Parda's embrace and began to sob; it was impossible to tell if she was actually being eaten at by remorse or just overcoming the huge shock.

The two monks eyed each other worriedly, then both looked at the blood-bathed sword and body on the floor, but they said nothing. Finally, Vendice calmed down enough to realize it was time for an explanation. She reluctantly pulled away from Parda and the comfort he offered.

"Well?" Karan demanded, deeming they had waited enough.

"He attacked me," said Vendice decidedly. "I don't know who he is, but he was here when I came in and..." She left it there, unable to not feel a pang of guilt: he hadn't attacked her, he was going to, and she could have just immobilized, not killed him. _Liarrrrr!_ came the voice's immediate reaction as a terrible shriek that chilled her to the marrow. _You are a wretched LIAR! You will burn in the Abyss!_ Vendice blanched instantly, losing the bit of color that had returned to her.

"You don't look well, child," said Parda as he felt at her forehead and checked for any fever.

Meanwhile, Karan had bent over and retrieved her dirty long sword from the floor. "Let's help you clean this," the old monk offered. "And then you should go find Gorion; he's been pacing the library like a caged lion waiting for you."

* * *

"Heya!" a cheerful and very girly voice greeted Vendice as the bard made for the library's front pair of artesian fountains.

The place was full of flowers of all kinds displayed in neat, orderly rows on each side of the tiled path and the air was sweet and fresh, as it befitted any first day of Mirtul. Somehow, Imoen's child-like charm felt as if it belonged there, with that undisturbed harmony, and Vendice couldn't help but smile back at the grinning redhead when their eyes met.

"Don't tell old Winthrop I'm here!" Imoen continued pleadingly when she was closer. She stopped and gave a hearty, content yawn. "I've got all day to do his chores." She pouted at Vendice's chuckle, but got over it the very next moment. "So, what have ya been up to?" she asked, playfully poking her friend in the ribs.

_She's a bit MORE curious than usual, if that's possible!_ remarked the omnipresent voice. _Outrageous!_ Vendice ignored it completely. "Imoen," she said, forcing herself into seriousness. "I would love to sit and chat with you, but I'm in a hurry." She paused. "Although... I guess I do owe you a proper goodbye."

"You gonna be gone for long?" the redhead smiled innocently, twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she spoke. That particular girl always seemed to be moving, even when she wasn't taking any steps.

"And how did YOU know I was leaving?" Vendice exclaimed more than asked.

"I never get to travel," Imoen avoided providing that answer and called upon an affected tone. "Wish I could go with ya. Yep. I really wish I could. Yessir. Really do." The girl didn't stop nodding through it all.

"Fine, fine, I can see where that's going!" Vendice snickered, then her lips curled into a big all-knowing grin. "The things I go through for you." She shook her head. "All right, I'll ask Gorion if you can come."

"He'd never even let you finish the sentence," Imoen huffed playfully. "Especially after what that letter..." She stuttered a bit, but then just grinned out with subtle mischief. "...The letter that I never saw said. Yep. Never saw no letter." She faced Vendice's cocked eyebrow with the most innocent countenance the half-elf had ever seen. "I'll just get back to work now. You had better go, too, before Gorion puts a hole in that floor with so much pacing back and forth."

Imoen darted past her friend in her usual light-hearted manner, whistling a happy tune. Vendice shook her head and turned to look after the redhead until she lost her beyond the walls encircling the Inner Grounds. "Not my idea of a proper goodbye," the bard told herself. "But it'll do, I guess."

Besides, some pesky little voice was getting too insistent along the lines of: _Come onnn! This is boring! The expedition should be exciting! The sooner we go, the better!_ 'For once, you're right,' Vendice thought at it as she began to make for the library's entrance, nodding to Tethtoril when she went past the red-robed superior monk.

She found Gorion waiting on the marble steps at the door; apparently, he had grown too impatient to stay inside. He had changed into his dull gray traveling robes and was carrying a backpack, while another was strapped to his shoulders. He handed her the first one as soon as they met.

"You will need this, eventually, trust me," he assured her.

Vendice thought it wise to follow Parda's good advice and let her step father know of the attempt that had been made on her life. Well, almost made; she omitted the details once again, but this time the voice refrained from shrieking like a mad old witch – being near Gorion and his wise calm always seemed to temper the little nuisance.

The old wizard sighed deeply. "I guess I should let you know, then, that it's not an expedition we're going on."

"It isn't?" gaped Vendice without thinking first.

He looked at her awkwardly. "I hadn't thought you so naive, child," he said, preoccupied. Vendice flushed. "This is not good," Gorion continued. "But we must go, and urgently. The Keep is no longer safe."

"Wait," Vendice came to her senses enough to speak coherently. "Where IS it we are going, then?"

"I haven't decided yet."

He began to walk away and she followed. The old wizard gestured emphatically, as he often did when a lot was on his mind, and he exposed the possibilities to her, each with its own advantages. He even mentioned a few friends of his which he left nameless on purpose and Vendice didn't press. She knew he would tell her when he saw fit. _Do you, now?_ 'I thought you were silent around him!' _Thought wrong! Hee!_

They reached the gates and Gorion stopped her abruptly, placing his hands on her shoulders. When he was sure her full attention was on him, he spoke, on perhaps the most serious tone Vendice had ever heard. Not even Karan was so serious, when he taught her history back in the old library's halls. "Listen carefully," the old wizard said. "Should we ever become separated, you must go to the Friendly Arm Inn. There, you will meet Khalid and Jaheira. They are old friends, you can trust them."

Vendice nodded, still confused and lost, and he let go of her. "Father," she started to protest, but Gorion turned away to let the Gatewarden know they were leaving for an undetermined period of time. The girl looked desolately frightened. _Odd names. Foreign sounding!_ "Who cares?" she muttered.

* * *

It was late, night had fallen, it had begun to rain, the wind was making odd whistly sounds as it blew through the trees and Gorion was as silent as if they were walking through the cemetery. A gloomy Vendice strode behind him, cold, wet and convinced that all the bad things had happened already and nothing could make the start of their journey worse. Why weren't they following the safe road, anyway?

The voice seemed unusually cheerful, too, which only served to distress the bard even further. _I'm saaafe in your heaaad,_ it hummed like a spoiled brat. _While you're wet and cooold! _Vendice sighed and tried to send it away by shaking her head. For the fiftieth time already.

She ran smack into Gorion. "Ow!" she exclaimed, pulling back. "I'm sorry, but..." A single gesture of his reduced her to silence and she just rubbed her forehead grumpily.

Gorion looked around for a few more moments, then turned to face his step daughter with much distress. "Something doesn't seem right," he warned quietly. "We may be in danger."

"You're perceptive for an old man," they heard a dark, contempt-filled voice from the right. Both turned as one and looked.

Four figures detached from the shadows of a nearby cluster of trees and advanced on them. The front man was unnaturally tall and clad in a spiked suit of black armor that looked to be very much alive and breathing. The sight of him and his yellow, glowing eyes sent an instant chill down Vendice's spine. His followers were a woman and two ogres, which didn't look as massive as those creatures usually did, because they stood barely two inches taller than the man.

"You know why I'm here," the armored figure stated calmly before Gorion could speak. "Hand over your ward and no one will be hurt. If you resist, it shall be a waste of your life."

_It's YOU he wants! Mebeh he just thinks you're pretty? (Snicker.) He doesn't look like one for pretty things though. Unless pretty means ogre._ Vendice shook her head and listened to Gorion's answer.

"You're a fool if you believe I would trust your benevolence," the old wizard spoke proudly. Suddenly, he no longer looked like Vendice's weary foster father; he stood straight and defiant. Hidden strength resounded along with the new tone of his voice. He wasn't an old man, he was a powerful mage. And he was dangerous. "Step aside and you and your lackeys will be unhurt," he proclaimed his own threat in a simple, quiet manner.

"I am sorry that you feel that way, old man," the armored figure replied coldly, confident and sure he would obtain victory there.

"Father!" Vendice shouted dismally through the rain, but the wind ate her call. Or maybe she hadn't actually spoken it at all, she couldn't be sure with the voice dancing and humming obliviously through her head, with a terrible echo.

"Hurry, child!" the wizard urged, already casting his first spell. Where he found the time to speak in mid-incantation, Vendice wouldn't know. The Magic Missile flew at the nearest ogre as all four ambushers approached; the creature staggered and Gorion turned to the bard. "Get out of here!" he commanded.

She wouldn't have listened, but the spell the woman had cast hastily hit her chest in full and she toppled over, stumbling and crashing to the grassy ground. She found herself rolling away down the mild slope of the hillock atop which they were situated, with the last image of Gorion that of a wizard casting spells in a frenzy at three rapidly approaching attackers.

Vendice hit her head, her back and her pretty much everything else repeatedly as she tumbled and rolled off with the grace of a boulder. Still, she found the strength to stand as soon as the slope died into a leveled plain and she dazedly made her way through the soaked knee-high grass in the first direction her eyes saw. As she realized how real this was and her fear grew and gained unimaginable proportions, her speed increased.

_Memorable!_ the voice screeched away in delight. _Breathtaking! Promise me we'll never forget tonight! It felt exhilarating!_ 'It did!' Vendice thought. 'To finally see the overprotective old man die! I am free!' She shook her head in the immediate aftermath, horrified. "NO!" she yelled through the night at the top of her lungs, even as she ran. "I loved Gorion! Stop making a monster of me!" Tears broke her wall of resistance and began to roll down her cheeks along with the raindrops, their warmth dying quickly once it made contact with the atmosphere.

Eventually, she ran out of breath completely. Gasping, a half-blind Vendice collapsed to her knees and looked at the small portion of what was ahead that she could still see. Her head pounded along with the frantic, terrified heart that had risen into her throat. She saw the road, its silent old rows of cobble arranged in their places and she crawled on all fours, made for it as the lost pilgrim reaches out for a God.

There, on the cold stone, she fell completely; her face hit the ground with the loud crack of bones. _Nooo! Don't stooop! This was FUN! ..._ The disappointed voice. "You!" she growled furiously, rolling to a side to punch at the road below her. "Shut up! It's YOUR fault!" She knew it wasn't true, but she needed a vent, anything she could direct her rage at. And the voice was always there.

_Tsk, tsk,_ it responded. _MY fault? It was YOUR fault. Yours. The armored one was after you. YOU caused Gorion's death!_ The image of a thousand accusing fingers pointing at her invaded Vendice's mind. _Yes!_ the voice wailed, seemingly thrilled with its new idea. _It was you. You and your 'Nothing ever happens here!' whining. Well, stuff did happen. How do you like it NOW?_

It went on for a while, with Vendice groaning and thrashing about. It was a dream. It had to be. Reality was never so delirious.

And then, the blackness came. And the silence.

* * *

She woke up slowly, to the fresh air of morning and the cheerful chirping of birds. To the aromatic scent of trees whose flowers were in full bloom and to the distant sound of the restless sea. To a sky of blue and a sun as bright as always. And to Imoen's friendly, smiling face.

WHAT?

She sat up abruptly and the redhead drew back in time to avoid the impact of their foreheads. "Imoen!" Vendice exclaimed, gasping. "I knew it! I knew it had to be a dream!"

But the usually cute redhead's half-pained half-sympathetic expression said otherwise and the bard's shoulders slouched – she trembled. "It wasn't, was it?" she finally said weakly. _Sure it wasn't!_ The voice again; she had hoped it wouldn't come back so soon after she had awoken.

Imoen purposefully didn't answer that. "I'm sorry I followed ya," she said simply. "But I never get out of Candlekeep and those monks are such a bore!" She paused a little. "I did my best to clean your face, ya know, but your hair is still filthy."

Vendice groaned as she felt at the top of her blond head and then down through the formerly silky strands that now stuck together in a crust of dried mud. "I'll take care of it... somehow," she muttered as she was pulling herself to her feet. The world spun about for a moment, but then all was as good as new.

She looked around – all seemed so... normal. _What were you expecting? Hmm? That the world was revolving around your old Harper and now would have to come down crashing? Or maybe that it revolves around you and should be mirroring your sorrow? Well, tough luck! It doesn't!_ As much as she didn't want to admit it, the voice was right. Time wouldn't stand still for her and she had to move on lest all else should leave her behind.

"Where are we?" she asked Imoen.

The roguish girl shrugged. "Dunno exactly," she said. "Some good distance East of Candlekeep. You won't be able to return there, though. Winthrop could get me in, but they wouldn't have you back."

Yes, they would. Wouldn't they? No, and Vendice knew. The monks were pretty helpful in general, but theirs was an exclusive society; the first thing that mattered to them was the peace and quiet and the safety of the library. She turned abruptly and came to face her friend. "You should go back," she told her firmly. "I don't want to endanger you." She paused, shaking her head, and spoke again before Imoen could. "I mean... no, stay. Please. I'm so... scared?" Her voice almost faltered and she bit her lip.

Imoen pretended not to have noticed her weakness; that made Vendice feel comfortable and grateful. "The letter," said the redhead. "The one I read and found out... stuff from. You should prolly see it. Maybe it's still on his..." She took a clumsy break, painful for both of them. "...his body," she finished.

Vendice nodded, blinking back a new stream of tears. The two girls came together and their hands found each other in a soothing way. They walked like that, with Imoen pointing the right direction.

As bad as things were, reality needed to be faced.


	3. Duality

_I apologize for my delay with updating, but I've recently reinstalled both Knights of the Old Republic games (old memories) and not only have they been keeping me busy, but... Baldur's Gate isn't exactly the thing to write about when you're playing around the Star Wars universe._

* * *

_Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own_

_private opinion. What a man thinks of himself, that is which_

_determines, or rather indicates, his fate._ - Henry David Thoreau

* * *

**  
CHAPTER TWO**

**Duality**

At first, Imoen had been grateful and relieved to see a change in Vendice's behavior after the bard had read the letter. Though the sight of the dead bodies, Gorion's especially, had been shaking for both, the young thief was too cheerful by nature to remain in pain for long. She had hoped Vendice wouldn't brood either, though she had every right to do so; and her wish had seemed granted for a while. But now, when they were back on the road and making their way eastwards, Imoen wasn't so sure.

The tune that the bard had been composing and humming occasionally along the road began as a pretty happy-sounding one and the thief thought Vendice was trying to discard her sorrow. But more and more, it had grown into a rather forced charade which resembled a madman's. Once, one of the mothers sheltered in the monastery had given birth to a dead child – Vendice now reminded Imoen of that woman's lost and disbelieving attitude while she clung to the baby and sang to it, unable to admit the truth. Also, it was worrying how oblivious the bard was to her surroundings and how lifelessly her steps were taken, at always the same pace, a cadence that would have properly fallen into the description Gorion's stories gave to undead creatures.

Except from the humming, they walked in silence and kept a steady pace that allowed a good view and study of the land. If Imoen had been a ranger, she was sure she would have found it all very educative. As they were passing by a group of trees the two girls had never seen before, Vendice suddenly came to a halt, stopped humming and spun on the thief so abruptly that the redhead's heart skipped more than just one beat.

"Why are all beautiful things frail?" asked the bard, her eyes clouded and seeming to look at some point directly above Imoen's shoulder. "For example, dreams. They're beautiful, aren't they? But fragile, so fragile..."

"D-" the thief tried to catch her surprise-accelerated breath. "Dreams? Yea, I think so. Why; didja have any special ones lately?" She did not yet know what to make of this sudden turn of events she couldn't have possibly anticipated and was doing her best to be her usual cheerful self.

"I am having one right now," Vendice confessed with an air of exaggerated secrecy. "Promise not to tell anyone, but it's a nasty, nasty dream." The smile plastered to her lips looked silly and distracted.

Imoen didn't know what to do, what to say; she considered knocking her friend unconscious and going from there, but dropped that course soon enough because it wasn't her style. She couldn't possibly bring herself to hit Vendice out of nowhere. "What was... is... your dream about?" she asked reluctantly.

"Many people," answered a gleeful Vendice. "They all love the murderer; even Gorion does. And the murderer... well, he's cute when he's wearing pink instead of that ugly armor. You like pink, Imoen, don't you?"

Imoen nodded, for she knew not what else to do. She waited for a while and just held her short bow close; she doubted her friend would be able to defend in that state, if anything were to attack them. The bard would probably not even notice it if everything started wilting and turning into ash around them, out of the blue. Imoen expected Vendice to say more. But her friend just stood there obliviously for a few additional moments, then turned around and resumed walking. And so, the thief followed, the tension grew with each step they took and the young rogue's nerves felt like old, unstable bow strings by the time they ran into a rather odd pair of travelers.

The two men had stopped along the path for a reason that Imoen couldn't guess by merely looking at them; already they appeared more than just suspicious. One, a tall human dressed in green robes, was looking around with an amount of merriment and carelessness that seemed to annoy the other, and he kept gaping at every single leaf in the trees or blade of grass on the ground. He pointed and gestured frantically, trying to explain something. His companion, a leather-clad halfling with a look morose enough to make one want to become invisible and sneak past unnoticed, was taking turns of glaring at either him, or the two approaching girls.

Vendice stumbled right between them and nearly tripped over her own boot, then simply froze there and Imoen had to stop a couple of steps away and watch with enough caution for the both of them. "Oh, hello," said the bard in an awkward, clumsy, remotely pretty-girl like manner. "I'm Vendice." She smiled to the halfling, who just rolled his eyes at her in response and grumbled something.

The green-robed mage whipped around and gawked at her like she was the last living dragon in the world or something to that effect. "Montaron!" he then exclaimed, more than a tad louder than necessary and with an enthusiasm as unexplainable as, per example, where that scroll of Tethtoril's back in Candlekeep had disappeared. (Well, actually, even that had an explanation, but Imoen would carry such a deadly secret of utmost importance to her grave.)

"Ye don't need to be yelling like that, dolt," snapped the halfling in return, then turned his poisonous glare to Imoen. "Move those busy-bady eyes some place else before I lose me patience."

"But Montyyy," the mage switched to a whiny voice that simply didn't belong there, with his image of a grown-up man. He sniffled and stomped his foot moodily when the other's attention was back at him, then the next second he had cleared his throat and was grinning wryly. "This young wayfarer is in need," he said seriously, with an air of self-importance, as he pointed to Vendice.

"I am?" Vendice though fit to actually speak, or more likely rant, by that time. "Err... I am! Though you don't look like a knight in shining armor." She gave the mage an apprehensive look. "Maybe if you bought some plating and turned your friend into a horse... err... pony."

Imoen swallowed a very tight knot and felt it roll down into her stomach in a fashion much like she was sure a rock would, though she hadn't yet tried that feat. The halfling was looking at Vendice in a manner that was none too friendly, especially with his hand going down to his belt, where he was sure to have some weapon.

"Looks to me like she could still use some roughing up, Xzar," said Montaron with an ill intent.

"Nonsense!" the mage switched back to gesturing widely and exclaiming, and somehow Imoen didn't think it was so much of an accident when his hand whipped about and caught the halfling right in the face. Though Xzar seemed to be quite eloquent with his apology and excuses.

Montaron spat at his companion's feet and glared up at him with all the fire of the Nine Hells. "Blast, ye blithering idiot, I'll be dumping ye down the first sewer mouth I see open."

"Young traveler," said Xzar, not minding his companion's injuries any more than you would a simple troublesome fly. "I can offer you healing potions as a token of our good will."

This time, his manner had been a courteous one, though its respect most likely hid some personal interest in his case; or that was how Imoen felt about it all.

"I won't even hold you in debt for it," continued the green-robed one. "Though your conscience knows otherwise."

"Like all good people," muttered the halfling.

Vendice would have to be stupid to accept such an offer; after all, the bard knew her way with people even better than the young rogue did. Imoen relaxed and let out her breath, but her peace only lasted for the moment before she actually looked to Vendice. What was she thinking? Currently, the bard was worse off than just 'stupid', her own sanity seemed to have been completely torn to shreds.

"I'd be grateful for your assistance," the half-elf accepted whole-heartedly, nodded and even disregarded the fact that she had her own potions somewhere in her backpack. "Maybe you would even travel with us for a while; we're headed for the Friendly Arm Inn, to meet some nice people there."

Imoen felt an urge to just slap her forehead and sigh, but she held back from that, for the sake of paying attention, if not for good first impressions. "Vendice," she said, stepping in. "Maybe we should... go?"

The bard was just taking the potion offered to her and staring at it with wide eyes, much like she hadn't ever seen such an object before. "But I'm having fun here," she protested to the thief, then pouted. "Why doesn't this pretty bottle shine?"

Imoen couldn't possibly fail to notice the nudge that the halfling gave to his companion when he thought the two girls weren't looking anymore. She heard the whispered words clearly: "Mayhap we can convince them to go to Nashkel with us, hmm?"

"Nashkel!" Xzar yelled with glee, thus ruining every effort to maintain secrecy that the halfling had made. "Yes, let's go to Nashkel!"

"Nashkel?" Vendice didn't seem completely oblivious either, though she wasn't concerned with the fact that the first objective of the two had been to speak behind her back. "Is Nashkel going to like us?"

"Err..." Montaron seemed to lose his grip of the situation for a while, only to regain it a moment later and cast an angry look at his mage companion. "Why don't ye come with us and find out for yerself?"

"Vendice," Imoen tried to grab the bard's arm and warn her – as much as someone in her condition could be warned – that something about the two didn't look right.

"I like you," the bard said, ignoring her and peering over to Xzar. "You're funny and you gave me the pretty bottle that doesn't shine."

Xzar twirled in place and just seemed to stare over to the horizon without purpose. His halfling 'friend', if he could be called so, grunted and grabbed the sleeve of his robes. "We'll go with ye to yer Inn, if ye come with us to Nashkel. Ye owe us that fer our time," he addressed Imoen more rather than Vendice. With that, he dragged Xzar away along the road, going past a stone indicator that marked the path as the Coastway.

"Let's go," Imoen pleaded with her bard friend soothingly and began to lead her away as well.

Vendice complied without much in the way of protest, waving and shaking the potion bottle around with the hand free from the redhead's. "Imoen, why don't you agree with me that it's pretty?" she asked poutily.

"I never said I didn't agree, Vendice," the thief attempted and managed a smile, to hide her actual need, which was of sighing profusely.

At least they were moving again, and the two suspicious men were ahead and couldn't make any move on them without her seeing it.

* * *

Vendice didn't know much of herself, really; she didn't even perceive things, aside from the vague impression that she was taking steps. As far as she was concerned, she could have been on some floor in the middle of the Abyss, dead already, and just walking off to nowhere land. At least she felt safe here, away from the world and without the need to concern herself with ethics, morals and being witty for the sake of good conversation. Peace and quiet, much like those she had in Candlekeep, but even better because there were no stupid little chores and no incompetent villagers for her to help. No monks to lecture her for the smallest things and make her read all of those boring books. Not even the voice. 

All that, until she stepped on a twig, and it snapped. And with it, something also snapped in her own head and she gave a sudden start that wrenched her through an immensely burdening lid back up to the surface. She gasped for air and collapsed to her knees when her legs buckled, unable to sustain her; it felt as if something had been controlling her body and now she had it back and her own command of it had overridden its previously received indications.

"Vendice!" she heard a worried voice, Imoen's, from her right, and the thief's cold hands slid around her arm and helped her up. "Are you alright?"

The bard leaned on her friend for support and watched the world spin around at an eerie inconstant speed. There were many lines and spots of both light and shadow that merged and darted about frantically, but they began to fall into place and form bigger things with each blink her lids performed. Her eyes stung as if they had been wide open for a while longer than it was natural and she felt a few soothing tears well up on the edges to drown the pain.

"Where are we?" she asked Imoen, somehow, through all of the confusion.

"A good way closer to the Friendly Arm Inn than we were, I think."

Vendice was vaguely aware of the uneasy shift of weight her friend performed, and also of her sigh, and she could almost feel an awkward look fixed on her with concern. The Friendly Arm. Quickly, notions fell into place and she remembered; she remembered more than she would have wanted to. "When did we get this far?" she asked, frowning.

Just then, the ordeal began in her head. _Damn you!_ the voice gave a terrible cry of displeasure. _DAMN YOU! Silly little girl, I was having fun being you!_ "Being me?" Vendice asked, shivering with fright and managing to not even hear Imoen's next reply.

A moment of silence, then... "Vendice?" the thief shook her gently. "You're acting strange."

The bard fell into her friend's arms and wrapped her own about the redhead, seeking comfort in an embrace that never came from the limp, stunned and frightened girl that was Imoen at present. Nevertheless, she clung for a couple of moments and buried her face in the other's shoulder, which helped, offered enough comfort to keep the dismay-ridden tears from spilling out. She sighed.

Then, Vendice let go and recomposed herself, ignoring the wails and laments of despair that the voice issued as it stormed through her brain. "Who are these two?" she asked quietly and pointed to the human mage and the grim-looking halfling that had stopped further along the road and were by all semblances waiting for them.

"You... took 'em with us," Imoen explained with a shrug and avoided the bard's eyes as she fidgeted with a fold of her shirt. "You were acting strange, Vendice. I was so scared..."

"I'm sorry, Imoen," the bard sighed. "Gorion's . . . death has... affected me more than it should have. I'll be fine now." There was a grace about her, an aura of something similar to majesty that no one could deny. She turned away after offering her friend a comforting pat on the arm and surveyed the two men. "Get moving," she told them, the prompt and expeditious way a commander maneuvers his troops about the field.

The halfling grumbled and the mage whined, but both of them heeded her words and began to walk. The two girls followed, with Vendice trying to estimate what harm had been caused and whether these two should be kept or not. She reached the conclusion that, played right, they might prove useful cards for her to hold.

Cards? Played right? Where had she found so much strength all of a sudden? This wasn't what she knew herself to be, wasn't the artistic girl that wished to spend her time wandering and gathering ideas for new ballads to write and sing. She reminded herself of a knight or something of the sort, who was getting ready for war. And assuming she did have a war to fight, she didn't even know who her enemies were, which was, overall, just stupid. She would have to ask Imoen about what happened.

But not before settling one little dispute she still had. 'You,' she thought firmly to the chaos-driven voice. 'Stop shifting about.' _What if I don't?_ came the reply. _What will you do? You can't hurt me without hurting yourself... but I can get away with hurting you just fine._ It laughed at her; it no longer snickered, no longer teased, no longer tried to annoy her – it was plain out defiant and condescending. 'What have you done to me?' demanded a no less resolute Vendice. _I possessed you,_ it sneered. _I have as much power over your body as you do, little girl. Or even more._ 'We'll see,' Vendice did not give it the satisfaction of appearing defeated in her own mind, though this worried her more than she was able to explain.

The time for answers seemed to have come, and there was no Gorion to offer what was required. Who, then, was Vendice to turn to? _Why, yourself, of course,_ offered the voice without hesitation. _If you want something done right, do it yourself. Wasn't that how the saying went?_ 'How come you end up helping me?' Vendice asked it with a flicker of hope. _I'm not helping you,_ the voice backed away and faltered for a moment. _I'm... amusing myself. Yes. Yes, that._ 'Well, well. You are bound to my will as much as I am to yours, are you not?' A grin spread on Vendice's mentally projected face; she did not know where the realization had come from, but she knew it to be true. It rang of a power that she could yet muster; the voice fell silent.

"So, Imoen," Vendice began as her steps grew more confident and her hips began to sway with the usual charming grace that the bard had built over time. "Care to explain to me exactly what I did while... grief-stricken?"

The thief looked relieved when she eyed her and more than happy to share.

* * *

It had begun to rain again and the four of them were completely drenched by the time they finally reached the bridge leading to the gates of the Friendly Arm. The entire ensemble looked as huge as a full-fledged castle from where they were standing, with its stock of fortified walls of solid stone and a titanic central structure rising up from behind, even taller. There were even guards positioned strategically on the battlements and at the gates. Yet somehow, the atmosphere failed to be as austere as that of any castle; not that either Vendice or Imoen could actually tell, not having seen a real castle, but the place did look friendlier than Candlekeep itself. 

Montaron sputtered with displeasure, still trying to shake the water off of him, for as pointless as the effort was. "Ye'd do well and hurry, fop," he snapped at Xzar, who had remained behind and was staring up at the clouded midnight sky, his mouth wide open to capture some of the falling drops.

Imoen sighed and wound her careful way around the two, trying to ignore Montaron's glare. The halfling didn't seem to like anyone or anything and hadn't taken too well to the couple of jokes the thief had tried on him along the road. The only information they had managed to draw out of him was about his own profession; he was in part a rogue as well, though his primary training had gone into fighting skills. Knowing that and not finding him to be an agreeable and understanding companion at all, Imoen was a bit reluctant to leave her back open to the halfling.

As for Vendice, she had been silent for quite some while, unable to think of anything but the strange old man they had encountered. They were squinting and trying to decipher the writing on a stone pillar in the middle of a crossroads, to make out which way led to the Friendly Arm, when the white-bearded red-robed mage with a pointy hat had appeared. None of them had caught the moment exactly, so as far as they knew he could have simply materialized out of thin air.

"Ho there, travelers! Stay thy course a moment to indulge an old man," he had greeted them in a strong voice. Vendice had been compelled to admit it was dipped in wisdom, or so it appeared. Then, he'd shown himself as rather eccentric and asked some mildly allusive questions about their sanity, which were particularly hard on the half-elf. Wondering what it was he knew, she had been as polite as she could, but also quick in her dealings with the old man and had not disclosed one thing about their destination. Though strangely he appeared to know what it was already, for he had offered directions. Then, he had excused himself, apologized for taking her time, and left.

The bard had found herself unable to occupy her mind with any other thoughts than questions about who the strange man might have been. That was what she was doing now, when her boots splashed into yet another puddle, then thudded against the creaking wood of the bridge. She found the Friendly Arm a rather depressing place to be, in its drenched state, and the mud she caught glimpses of beyond the walls contributed. The guards didn't seem to mind them any more than to cast a few glances their way and make sure they would behave, so she went past the gates and headed up for the visible set of stairs leading to the actual inn's entrance.

Somewhere in the background, Montaron was still struggling with Xzar and Imoen had stopped to give the halfling a helping hand with it. Just as Vendice, who had hurried past the thief and taken the lead again, set foot on the first step, a robed figure detached from the shadows of the last and began to descend toward her. Somehow, Vendice was sure he was staring and found herself in a foul mood she had been unaware of. She would have liked him to bump into her or something to that effect, only for her to be provided with a vent.

"Hi, friend," the man laid honey on bread with his sweet tone as soon as they met and he cut the bard off from her path. "I've not seen you here before today. What brings you to the Friendly Arm?"

Despite the rain that rolled off from the thickness of her mane and pretty much every corner of her face, Vendice felt her cheeks heated and her green eyes burned when she fixed the robed stranger with a glare. "First off," she said. "I'm not your friend. And secondly, why I'm here isn't any of your flaming business." _You tell him!_ the voice cheered, which only caused the girl to roll her eyes.

The man gave a loud snort. "How rude," he scowled at Vendice.

"Tough luck," replied the bard with a grimace and made to go past him and enter the Inn.

He grabbed her arm, squeezed tightly and held her in place. "No, really, that is utterly rude of you," he spat between clenched teeth. "I'd teach you a lesson about manners, but that implies you are going to live."

Vendice rolled her eyes and jerked away, but he brought her back into place, and only then did the girl start worrying. Maybe he wasn't just some drunk fool with the pretense of nobility and skill about him, after all.

He sneered at her and brought his other hand below her chin, lifting her face toward his own. "You're a lovely one, too," he remarked. "That's a shame. If I didn't have to kill you, I could find you other 'uses' for being so uppity."

A million possible actions she could have taken swarmed inside of Vendice's mind, some of them her own ideas, others suggested by the voice. Of all, she chose one – she spat at him, stamping his cheek with a stain of white. His grip loosened in the moment of surprise, and she pushed him away, then kicked at him. The man staggered for a moment, but obviously he wasn't just no one, and certainly not drunk, for he recovered the next moment and began to chant. Even if she possessed no skill to do so herself, Vendice was no stranger to casting spells – bards were versed in all kinds of lore – and she recognized the Magic Missile.

The half-elf drew one of her swords and swung it quickly, performing a zealous stab at the man's chest. At the same time that the blade plunged into his upper left half, he released the spell at her and four bolts of white-red light sprang from his fingertips and came forth. The speed was amazing, a technical detail usually left out of the stories about heroes and great deeds, and they hit Vendice like hammers, an impact that knocked all breath out of her. She stumbled and gasped, losing all conscience of what she was supposed to let go of and what she should hold on to, all sense of direction, including where up and down were, and the last of her remaining rationality.

The cracks she heard were only faintly perceived as belonging to her own bones when her body began to roll down the stairs, and the pain invaded her in a belated fashion. "Ugh," she groaned as soon as she had stopped falling, or thought she had, and tried to lift her head. That only released a surge of purely physical hurt inside every fiber of muscle involved and the world spun about in a frenzy of red. Something else, a warm substance, trickled down her cheek along with the rain, and that was the last thing she knew.


	4. A Meaningful Vision

_In times of change, learners inherit the Earth, while_

_the learned find themselves beautifully equipped to_

_deal with a world that no longer exists._ - Eric Hoffer

* * *

**  
CHAPTER THREE**

**A Meaningful Vision**

Some walls were blue, others were green. Some were red like blood and others were black like the deepest voids one could imagine. Some had no color of their own at all and they stole the colors of things around them with insatiable hunger, making it seem as if they were openings, not walls. Vendice knew their tricks now and was no longer trying to pass through them. She didn't trust them like she didn't trust herself, for they were alike; none had a base of their own, and both stole from all else – a bard, a jack-of-all-trades, was in no small amount just like the color-borrowing wall. She simply remained there in the middle, determined to never come out again.

After all, the place held unspeakable beauty. It was a huge room with a bolted ceiling of glass through which one could see the azure sky and the ever-changing white clouds, and with a floor of smooth marble against which the boots gave hollow sounds. The bard was wearing a dress of the finest elvish make; silk flowed around her in folds and ribbons and formed a mix whose entanglement she could not work out with her simple eyes, for each element was lost within the next. Her arms were left bare and fair-skinned and now possessed the grace of a princess, no longer just moving, but floating as the fingers played with the multi-colored waters of the fountain; she sat on the edge of it and looked at the circlets she caused to scatter and the images they formed. And, most important of all, she had wings; big, rich, resplendent white wings with feathers softer than those of any bird known to human and elven and any other kinds alike.

And still...

_The exit is over there._

The voice wouldn't let her be lost here forever, inside her own revelry in the dreamland she had weaved amidst the walls. Finally, she ruled over something, she had a place to call her own. She had turned prison into paradise, yet the pesky little resident in her head was not satisfied; it wanted out of there.

_Some twenty paces away,_ it reminded her again. _All you have to do is stand and walk to it._

"It's not an exit," murmured Vendice and the thin, pale lips barely moved to utter those words, much more content to remain smiling absently. "Just another of those walls..."

_One of them is not a wall._

Vendice knew that, though it hadn't been proven. But wasn't there always a way out of anywhere, as long as the person in question was willing to try and find it? "We can go later," she said quietly, while her finger twirled a new circle through the waters, causing a rain of other ripples to flow forth from it, one by one. Their regularity and precision fascinated her.

_There will not be a 'later',_ it warned insistently. _Can't you see the waters growing?_

And only then did Vendice notice that her once-white dress was soaked in color and its fabric stuck to her hips and thighs, as the fountain began to spill its waters above the edge, on the floor. They fell with a splash and began to creep along an insanely slow-moving course; when their tumult reached the walls, it began to build, and slowly its overall level grew and liquid flooded her quality shoes.

_Even paradise collapses when it comes to you._

Indeed, it seemed to be that way. Nowhere was safe for her, not even Candlekeep, the dullest of places. If home wasn't safe, then where could she find the peace she needed?

_It isn't peace that you need, Vendice. On contrary._

The girl stood, causing the folds of the dress that were still dry to fall into the water at her feet, while the rest continued to cling to her skin and make her moves more difficult. It all felt somewhat surreal and time itself appeared to be passing by so slowly... like an hourglass whose grains of sand have established order and are falling into the lower quadrant one by one. Everything floated around her, as if liquid had already swallowed it.

_These waters will swallow you. No matter where you run, they will follow; and nothing can stop so much water._

"How... do you know all of this?" asked Vendice, but even her voice sounded like the mere reflection of the melodic qualities it possessed, a thing that was waning along with all else around it. She raised a hand and stared at it, mesmerized by its fragrance... its transparency. Existence itself was letting go of the bard, stripping her of her color to give more to the hungry waters, though they had enough already.

_One chance,_ the voice announced. Of all, it alone had not lost a single bit of its strength._ One chance to guess which of the colorless portions isn't really a wall._

There were only two left now, as the others had grown their own color; or maybe there had never been more than that. Vendice didn't remember a thing right now. It was ironic, the way life went: always two possibilities that excluded each other were the strongest and yet none could clearly and completely be dismissed. Choosing meant taking a risk; it meant inability to go back and the wonder of what would have truly happened if the other had been chosen instead of the one that actually had. But no one could bring back the past.

"But I have wings!" something in her rebelled when she spoke next. "I can fly over the walls and escape without having to choose."

_It is not wings you have, but an illusion meant to trick you. There is no easy way, Vendice. Ever. You must learn responsibility._

"The waters cannot rise up into the air with me," she stubbornly continued to object.

_No. But neither can you fly upwards. The only direction your wings fly in, Vendice, is down, straight into their arms. Your only destination is the Abyss if you do not learn._

The bard sighed. "Then teach me," she accepted.

_Choose the one to the left._

Vendice began to walk, though her steps were clumsy and insecure and the folds of her dress floated on top of the already knee-high water, while the train had sunk already, hindering her efforts. It seemed like ages until she could wind her way to the left patch of transparent, color-stealing wall and look through it into a world with trees and grass and hills and a horizon that was far away and unreachable. All looked so peaceful beyond the edge of her little prison, so quiet and unsuspecting of the turmoil in her world. And the waters grew, and grew, and grew around her...

"No."

The bard steeled herself to speak the word clearly, to utter its every syllable with a decision that could not be moved. The only response of the voice was a snicker and then she felt it hide, slink back into the depths of her mind. But a moment of hesitation could cost her more than she would be able to imagine in this timeless, distorted space; and so she went away, to stare into the other wall, the one to the right. From its abysmal depth of swirling mists and fogs, two glowing orbs of yellow stared back at her and burned through her flesh as if their fire was material. Without feeling and thought, Vendice walked right into them, and though the water threw itself at her with furious, foam-filled waves, she was unstoppable in her decision.

* * *

The woman had already lost count of the time she had spent in vigil, by the light of a single candle to stand against the night, when the young Vendice, the ward of Gorion, finally stirred. Her silent guardian shifted in her chair and her head rose to point a pair of attentive eyes at the girl that lay on the bed. The bard had been still as a statue and silent as a grave; one had to listen very carefully to realize her heart still did pump blood through her veins and that she still breathed. Now, that she had moved, she also drew in a mouthful of air, which she let out slowly, before she groaned. 

"You are safe, child," said the woman's impartial, calm voice and her strong accent left its traces as surely as a stone would leave a mark in the surface upon hitting a wall.

The prone bard's eyes came open in one sudden moment and stared at her with some odd mix – distress and relief, two contrary feelings in a constant report of shifting domination. "Who are you?" she asked in the coarse voice of one whose throat is dry and tense. And hers probably was the case.

"My name is Jaheira," answered the woman, then she began to explain, slow enough for her to understand. "Khalid and I recognized you, though you were very little when we saw you with Gorion. He wrote about you often."

"The... Friendly... Arm," Vendice mumbled at the edge of coherence. She took a break and inhaled deeply, with a hunger for air similar to one who had been drowning in the ocean and found the surface again. "You are the friends he told me to meet here."

Now, given the time to supposedly recover and come to her senses fully, the bard took a moment to examine the one she spoke to. Jaheira was a woman with slightly tanned skin and light brown hair, whose countenance was balanced and exhibited nothing special; even the dark eyes were dull, though some sort of momentarily appeased fire did burn in them. She bore small scars here and there, of recent origins; nothing that wouldn't heal in a while. Whatever feminine forms she may have possessed were clad in leather and thus made nearly indistinguishable, but Vendice's expert eye was sure the woman had them. The impression she made on the bard, in general, was of one who sought to control even the smallest of her gestures and to always maintain her calm resolve.

"I was not aware of that," replied Jaheira, cutting her off from any more scouring. "The circumstances by which you ended up in my care were coincidental."

Vendice tried not to show that the permanently even and collected tone was a bit frustrating for one such as her, whose feelings were strong and whose imagination and eccentricity went far beyond normal boundaries. "I remember I fought some ... mage ..."

Jaheira sat up and walked to the window, pulling away the thick curtain that covered it. That didn't do much good, though, because the glass was fogged with condensed water. "Your companions have said so, though you should ask them for details, not me," advised the calm woman. "Be careful if you come out of bed; we called the local cleric for your severe injury, but your head may still throb."

"Now you tell me," muttered Vendice, who had already attempted to move and was now sitting on the bed's edge, with a spinning room all around her. A spiral of pain raked its way on the inside of her head, from one temple to another and back.

Jaheira turned her head, face now endowed with a small, serious frown, but did not seem to mind the thorns in the bard's remark any more than that. "You will find us downstairs," she said rather coolly, then turned again and went out the door, causing the least possible noise.

Eventually, Vendice managed to pull herself together and recall what had happened, though she did sigh and groan in abundance. "I need to practice some dueling," she told herself when she stood and began to stretch, as much as the armor that no one had bothered to remove allowed her stiff muscles to strain and relax again. She felt filthier than ever and everything in her body ached; some parts of her, probably where there had been broken bones, still felt insecure and her walk was clumsy.

Here she was; she had reached Gorion's friends and was supposed to enlist their help in doing what exactly? She did not know where to start, who the armored figure she needed to find was and why he took any interest in her, what... right, she knew nothing at all. "Where's the voice, anyway?" she mumbled to herself, and then waited for a snide comment of sorts. But it failed to arrive.

She thought losing the little voice would be quite a relief to her; it wasn't. It only made her feel like she wasn't herself anymore. Her only answer to this dilemma for the moment was a light shrug, performed right before she exited the small chamber and walked across the large sitting room toward the stairs. She came down into a frenzy of light and voices, of people and music, of agitation and smells of all kinds. The only other tavern Vendice had ever seen, Winthrop's, was by far quieter than this one and the opulence of activity stunned her.

"Vendice!" Imoen's voice called to her from the right and the young redhead darted from her seat straight into the bard's arms, hugging her tightly.

The only reply was composed of a muffled, unintelligible sound and a weak response to the hug. When Imoen let go of her, Vendice took a few moments to catch her breath. "Let me see," she said. "You startled me, you choked me and now you expect a good word, or what?" With a chuckle, she winked and then slipped past her, toward the table where Jaheira sat with a half-elven man, the both of them ostentatiously distanced from Montaron, and Xzar.

The rogue grinned with characteristic slyness and followed in quick steps, reaching up to Vendice and rounding her arm with one of her own; all in all, they looked like two friends who had been drinking and were now acting a bit more freely. The bard assumed that the man Jaheira looked so familiar with was Khalid; he was very much alike the woman, but more the slender type, even clad in his armor plates as he currently appeared. His features were of the elegant kind of all half-elves, though unable to match those of pure-blooded elves, and he displayed the characteristic finesse in movement; though admittedly something did look out of place – the fearful way he stared at his surroundings.

The both of them stopped by the table and Imoen studied Vendice's smirk for a moment, before realizing irony or sarcasm was on its way.

"Well, well," the bard began with nonchalance. "I'm absolutely delighted to see you've all formed such bonds of friendship."

Three pairs of eyes were fixed on her at the same time, while Xzar continued to stare at the bald head of some man in his view range. Jaheira and Khalid had the countenances of mentors whose apprentice had just made a grave mistake and Vendice knew that, if she should choose to remain in their company, they would no doubt do more than stare. Maybe that was just what she needed for the time being.

Montaron broke all of them out of their little game when he slammed a piece of paper down against the table's surface. "We looted the mage that attacked ye," he said gruffly. "An' we found this."

Ignoring the new distrustful glances that Jaheira was exchanging with Khalid, Vendice brought herself down to pour onto what appeared to be a carefully scribbled note. Soon after she had begun reading, she felt part of Imoen's weight heaving down on her as the girl peered over her shoulder. They were looking at what appeared to be a bounty offer, with Vendice as the target.

"Delightful," remarked the bard in a dry voice, waiting for Imoen to get off her back.

"What is it, child?" demanded Jaheira immediately, giving her a grave stare.

"Someone's payin' good money to see Vendice dead," said Imoen while pulling away and somehow she managed to sound as if she were proud of her friend's worth, more than she was concerned for her safety.

_What? Bounty? Well, that should be entertaining!_

The voice was back; Vendice could hardly hide her relief behind the expression of concern she had been forced to adopt. She knew that it would probably be better if the voice went away, but she had grown up with it and change came by with difficulty when it was about things so interred into one's habit. "So the mage I stabbed – was he a bounty hunter?" she asked.

"I dunno about 'bounty hunter'," said Imoen from behind her. "But he sure wanted the money."

"It was easy enough killin' him," agreed Montaron. "An' he was broke."

"He had some spell scrolls," interjected Xzar, turning to face his friend and the two girls with an air of absorbed self-importance and a tone to match it. The next moment, he was looking away again and humming.

Meanwhile, the note had passed on to Jaheira and Khalid, who had been reading it carefully. When they were done, their eyes came back to rest on Vendice. Both of their expressions were at their gravest and the bard bit her lip in order not to chuckle. The two formed quite the pair, she had to admit; they were just like she had always imagined a pair of married parents would be.

"Child," began Jaheira firmly. "You need to take this seriously."

Then, for the first time since the bard had arrived, Khalid spoke. "It would be a p-proper service to Gorion if we t-traveled with you until you got s-settled."

A pretentious-looking half-elf babbling? That was quite enough for Vendice to forget her manners, if she had ever possessed any in the first place, and begin to laugh. She only controlled herself when it was too late for anything other than a clumsy coughing fit that cast an only too transparent veil over her true first reaction. Khalid lowered his eyes to the table in front of him, while Jaheira's own flickered and the fires Vendice had previously seen in them grew.

"If I didn't know Gorion well," the woman pressed the words forth. "You would be giving his memory a bad name to me."

"I'm talented," answered Vendice and gave a small shrug.

"It's q-quite... alright," managed a rather choked Khalid, right before flushing and probably overwhelming the impulse to hide under the table.

"No, it is not!" snapped Jaheira, as much as she could. A more proper description would be that her voice rose enough for the change to be perceptible and to subdue everyone's attention, Xzar included. "We should be discussing serious matters and instead we are all acting like children Vendice's age."

"I apologize," the bard muttered darkly. "And for the record, I'm twenty, not... sixteen or something."

She shook her head and gave a sigh, then turned her back on the table and, refusing to hear whatever heated discussion erupted behind, she scanned the room. Everywhere, humans, dwarves, gnomes and elves were enjoying their late evening – drinking, swapping rumors and singing along with the present wandering troupe in the corner were common activities. In the middle of the room, space had been made for those who wished to dance and several pairs were giving it a try; by the looks of it, none of them really knew each other, but they were having fun anyway.

_Yes,_ the voice agreed with her thought. _You should be there._

"No one wants to dance with a girl that is filthy and has a bunch of people watching over her," she grumbled in response. "Guess I'm stuck with the boring lot."

The bard whipped a turn back toward her newly assembled band and whistled; it effectively cut off anything they were quarreling about this time. "Right," she began, while her eyes darted from one to the other. "Tomorrow morning I'm leaving this place. With or without any of you."

Protests ensued, but she was deaf to all of them and simply began to walk back for the stairs. The only one that followed, after a moment of hesitation, was Imoen; she caught up with her friend and circled her arm in a clingy fashion. "Lemme show you the room I rented for us," she said.

At least the rogue was cheerful, as always. Vendice smiled to her complacently and relaxed, giving her the lead of both their steps. "Perhaps I'll manage to at least clean my hair," the bard said with a heavy sigh. "I swear, this hasn't even begun well and I'm already sick of it."

Imoen looked away and fiddled with Vendice's sleeve as they began to climb the stairs. "Yanno..." she started on a tentative tone. "I managed to pocket a few of those scrolls on my own. Mebeh we can learn a spell or two?"

"Right," snickered Vendice. "We'll make the most powerful spellcasters in the world overnight."

"I was being serious about that, Vendice," Imoen insisted. "I looked at 'em. I really think I can learn the simple spells if I try hard."

"Well..." the half-elf took the first step on the path of being persuaded. "Most bards can also pull off a spell or two... Maybe we could ask that lunatic mage we have for some help?"

Imoen snickered; somehow, Vendice knew she wouldn't like what was to follow. "Ya sure seemed to like the mage when you were acting crazy," the rogue said nodding.

The bard shrugged. "You know... I really don't remember what I did."

_I do. It was fun._ 'I'm sure it was,' Vendice's mental reply to the voice was full of a fondness that seemed to stun the thing and cause it to withdraw for the moment.

Imoen cleared her throat – a new change of subjects was coming. "All of the others wanna go to this... Nashkel place. They say there's trouble we might work on together in there."

"What kind of trouble?" asked an intrigued Vendice and her eyes lighted up a bit at the prospect of adventure and stories of her own to tell once it was finished.

"It's the iron trouble folks're talkin' about. I've heard 'em. Everyone's sayin' how their weapons break and are no good at all; and strange things were heard of from the Nashkel mines."

"I wouldn't know where else to go anyway," admitted the bard. "So we could just as well do that."

"We could become famous, Vendice!" breathed Imoen excitedly as she stopped in front of a door and let go of her friend.

"I wouldn't go that far," Vendice chuckled lightly and pushed the indicated door open. Of course, she wasn't going to admit that the idea exalted her the same way and that she dreamed as Imoen did. On the other hand, the way things had gone that night, they would make quite a pathetic band...

_Worries can wait for now,_ the voice bade her to calm down. 'Yes, they can,' she agreed mentally and fell heavily onto one of the two beds in the room.

"Thought ya said you wanted to clean your hair," Imoen reminded her.

"I'm lazy," Vendice replied, stretching, then she closed her eyes and barely heard her friend's chuckle.

Indeed, she required a few moments to be herself; in fact, she needed to determine who she was, exactly. Wearing different masks and appearing strong in order to keep would-be predators away – she wasn't used to it. The game was new to her and she had need of time to adapt. She missed Gorion now that he was gone; it was strange how one never got to appreciate what they had until it wasn't there anymore. And she felt like a hunted animal, never aware of which bush someone might shoot an arrow at her from.

_Why did you choose this path?_ asked the voice, with a slight hesitation. _Why did you reject my plan, my suggestion?_

It was speaking of that dream with the walls and the water; Vendice knew. 'I'm not sure,' she thought to it. 'I didn't feel like I belonged in that peaceful world you showed me through your wall.'

_Ah, so that is your path, then. Strife and turmoil. You will cause much of both. ... But it is not the time to speak of this yet._

'What do you mean?'

But despite Vendice's pleas and repeated questions, the voice spoke no more that night. It left the bard to do her own thinking and yet another revelation hit her as she complied and resigned. The voice was trying to act like her mentor and it found all kinds of methods at hand. Her dream had meant something and it was her task to elucidate this mystery and reveal what exactly that meaning had been.

'In life, you learn from absolutely everything. It is your choice what you learn.' It was the set of thoughts she went to sleep with, aside from a hair that was still filthy and an unremoved chain mail.


	5. Conflicts

_Conflict is the gadfly of thought. It stirs us to observation and_

_memory. It instigates to invention. It shocks us out of sheeplike _

_passivity, and sets us at noting and contriving. _- John Dewey

* * *

**  
CHAPTER FOUR**

**Conflicts**

The afternoon of their second day of traveling, if any local resident can believe that, caught the party in the proximity of Beregost, methodically following a road Jaheira had chosen. In the morning, they had passed by the first outlying farms on both sides and, upon the sight of entire families already working out in the fields, Vendice had been forced to withdraw the begrudging comment she had made on being roused, that they were the only ones who could possibly be waking up that early. After all, she was perfectly conscious that Jaheira and Khalid traveling by themselves would have already made it to Beregost by the nightfall of the very day they had left the Friendly Arm. It was because of the other four's complaints and the constant quarreling that had erupted on a regular basis that they'd had to camp in the wilderness and were only making it so late within the next day.

Their dinner and breakfast had been less than frugal, they had skipped lunch completely and sleeping in a bedroll on half-humid soil wasn't exactly what one would call comfort. Additionally, the bard's guard shift had been the one in the middle, and waking up, struggling to stay vigilant, then going to sleep again wasn't something she liked to do. Vendice promised herself to compose at least one amusing song about why typical bards left those parts out of their ballads.

The only useful accomplishment she could spot so far was getting to know her companions better.

Any adventurer (or would-be adventurer) needed to have a specific profession and the bard soon found their party to be quite multifarious, in a way other than the clashing perspectives on life. Even if she hadn't told the others yet, Vendice saw herself as pretty much the leader of their small band; she had a way with words, as any bard should, and they wouldn't be able to deny her anything if she should try to obtain it. It was only a matter of them realizing as much. That train of thought usually made the voice laugh in a very amused fashion when it crossed her mind.

Currently, they were walking in pairs, the bard and Xzar in the middle, after it had been proven that putting either of them in front of the group and allowing them to set the pace wasn't a good idea, while leaving them last only caused them to remain way behind the others. Jaheira and Khalid were first, while, to Montaron's despair, the two contrasting rogues were at the back. All had weapons at the ready, due to an attack they had suffered earlier from a band of churlish imbeciles that managed to shift Vendice's romantic views on highwaymen as well.

_Enough with the recap already!_ the voice snapped at her when it could bear no more. _You've been through that already, it's over. You have a present and a future, too._

"I'm looking for ballad material," grumbled Vendice, which brought her a fugitive look from Jaheira. When the bard continued to look absent-minded with the improvised authenticity of a real actress, the druid's attention returned to the road.

_See? The present is fun._

'But I haven't written anything in three days!' protested Vendice, this time mentally.

_It's not that much time._ The voice made the impression of one who was rolling their eyes.

'Yeah...' Vendice admitted. 'But you're talking to the one that filled the blank pages in Gorion's grimoire in two hours when she ran out of paper.'

_Actually, it was my idea that you should write on that._

'Of course,' the bard had to fight a fit of giggling. 'The disastrous ideas always come from you.'

_Why don't you just improvise and sing something out of your head anyway? This lot needs some cheering up – look at them._

And Vendice did look. She turned to Imoen first, only to see the young girl's face adorned with a slight frown and her hands holding the short bow at the ready, while her eyes drifted from side to side. Only when she met Vendice's gaze, the rogue smiled slightly and winked, but as soon as Vendice pretended not to be looking anymore, the concern reappeared. Then there was Montaron; the halfling looked less content than ever and he kept staring at his feet, with occasional pauses when he looked at Jaheira and his fingers caressed the hilt of his short sword. He eventually ended up dismissing whatever ill intent he had, at least for the time being. The married couple wore concentrated expressions and were tense and alert to the slightest noise, ready to fend off any new attack. Alone, Xzar looked pretty happy; then again, he didn't seem to realize which world was real – that one or the one in his head.

Then, Vendice looked further away, to the grayed silhouettes of the walls that surrounded Beregost and the few taller buildings that towered above them, all forming a fragmented mass that was, in essence, the same thing; division, but unity altogether. Beyond, the horizon's thin and unclear line was obscured here and there by obstacles that lay closer, like the town itself, and seemed to progress along with the party. This unreachable place that kept running away from those who would reach it had always fascinated Vendice; not once during her childhood, she had run along the seashore, pretending to compete with something that was there, using the parallel horizon as its track. She always lost, but that never kept her from returning to try again, some other day.

The eternal line worked its mysterious charm this time, like it always did. It was her inspiration; the bard forgot about the party and her initial reason; when she sang out whatever was inside her, she did so for the something that she knew to be there, waiting.

"Look well around you and tell me what you see

For my eyes fall only on all that there could be..."

Vendice felt the familiar tingle building up in her throat, the imaginary sweet taste of music invading her mouth and her lips vibrating with each syllable they released. She felt her muscles strain gently and her allure changing; every bit of her contributed, every small part was there, in the sounds that emerged. She felt taller, she felt more graceful, her importance in her own eyes grew, as the immensity of the world centered around her tiny form and time stopped to listen. She tried to sing even better, for them, even as her mind worked frantically to find the words.

"The sun sets and would you think it a crime

If I told you my wish that its world were mine?"

The feel of the wind thrashing against her hair and batting at her face made the words seem almost material to her. She imagined them flaring up a bright golden color and flying on wings of white, as the current carried their small forms with it. To everyone and everything that had ears to hear or eyes to see how strongly they shone. Yet, the original idea wasn't forgotten: the muse, however unusual it was, had to be praised.

"Like the horizon, end of sight that forever drifts away,

So do our fragile dreams change and shift every day.

And from all the suns that burned bright

We're left alone with shadows and night."

She paused and took a deep breath, to give her what the controlled, small ones amid the words couldn't. She perceived this small act that everyone performed a hundred times a day as the most refreshing thing she had ever done. She felt complete, special, safe. It was exhilarating, yet she knew it had to be enjoyed while it lasted, she was aware of her true condition. Slowly, the story formed, she generalized the more particular case into a rule.

"In its own time, everything looks grand,

Then time goes by, it crumbles into sand

And when we've found a moment and we think again,

We see nothing's left of what we thought back then.

We are all things at once and yet none at all,

Rise to greater heights, so that deeper we can fall,

Delude ourselves with saying ignorance is bliss.

Me? One day, I'll fall so hard... I'll dig an abyss."

The end felt like collapsing from heaven straight to a cold floor.

Vendice hadn't realized when her eyes had drifted shut, nor when she had ceased to walk; now, when she opened herself to sight again, she saw that the others had stopped with her. Their attention was on her – they looked rather mesmerized, even more than they had probably been surprised at first.

_Do you see now?_ asked a pleased-sounding voice. _Everyone has their own special talent. Yours lies in song – your art is to affect others through that which you create._

'Yes. I see!' mentally breathed an exalted Vendice. The expression on her face was bright and her eyes shone when the waking others began to shift and fidget, then poise question-filled looks on her. "I will need to buy an instrument while in Beregost," she told them with a small smile, then, holding herself straight and tall, she drifted past them and took the lead of their small group.

A small rock hit her straight in the chest and for a moment her breath caught painfully. Outraged and shaken in her moment of glory, the bard frowned, briskly thrust her hands akimbo, and began to look for the source. She found it soon enough – a diminutive figure crouching behind a small bush and into the nearby ditch on the road's edge. 'A child?' she thought disappointedly. 'There goes the idea of revenge.' She wouldn't possibly be able to kick that one.

"Hey, kid," she called out as the party caught up with her, still exchanging nudges and chuckles behind her back. The little one would at least get a lecture.

"Don't you be getting any closer!" shouted the child, by all semblances a boy, as he ducked even lower. He sniffed, obviously frightened. "Or I'll have me momma come and give you the belt!"

"Well, that sure is scary," Vendice rolled her eyes, then turned to Imoen. "Remind me to never, ever, in all my life, have kids."

Imoen chuckled, but Jaheira stepped forth, frowning at Montaron who had just expressed his desire to rough the kid up a bit and send him off, for 'fun'. The halfling was silenced and the druid turned to Vendice with the same sort of severe expression, shaking her head. Then, she stepped past the bard and called out to the hiding figure, soothingly. "No harm will come to you from us, child. You can come out."

"Oh sure!" snapped what both Vendice and Montaron had individually classed as a 'brat'. That soon turned into a full temper tantrum... more or less. "That's what the other group of bandits said, and then they went and attacked a caravan I just saw leave. They were a bunch of liars, probably just like you. Get lost!"

"That is d-disturbing," said Khalid, stepping forth to join his wife and look to her for confirmation. "P-perhaps we should investigate?"

"We must," the druid demanded, turning to the rest of their group. "There may still be a chance to save the merchants."

"As long as we can loot what's left o' their wagons," shrugged Montaron.

"Maybe I'll find a new robe," a perfectly lucid Xzar expressed his own concern, tugging at a fold of his robe to reveal a tear in its side. "This one is getting old."

Imoen and Vendice shared a sigh and looked to each other, anticipating another conflict.

"You two are an affront to all," Jaheira scowled at the materialist duo, shuffling a bit further away from them. "Keep the distance from me, lest I should make you."

"Like anyone'd even be trying to come close to you, tree-hugger," sneered the halfling. "And your goody-two-shoes of a husband."

"That is q-quite enough!" Khalid's voice rose for the first time since the group had gotten together. Even Jaheira looked a bit surprised, though not as much as the others; she laid a soothing hand on his shoulder.

Montaron snickered, considering that his point had been made.

"Do something!" Imoen whispered to Vendice and prodded her in the ribs.

The bard realized this small pause was ideal for her to step in and cleared her throat just in time, getting the attention of all. "Gee," she began sarcastically. "Glad to see you're all as intelligent as the kid down there." She sighed, and her hands fell limp at her sides. "Hey, little one!" she called to the boy, who was now peeking out curiously. "What's your name?"

He looked at her with a frown just as small as his entire self; for the life of her, the bard couldn't hold him a grudge. "Jase," he said fearfully, still not trusting them.

"Jase," Vendice repeated and forced a smile. "Look, I'll give you a shiny gold piece if you tell me which way that caravan went."

"You're lying!" shouted the boy and began to hide again, but the sight of something small tumbling down and rousing a cloudlet of dust from the road caught his eye and stopped him.

"It went that way!" he said, pointing. "Now go away!"

"Right across the fields," remarked Vendice. "Smart move." She rolled her eyes, as she began to lead the calmer group away, to the northwest and slightly back where they had come from.

* * *

It was only by late night that they finally and actually made it to the town of Beregost itself. They stormed through the gates, attracting small frowns from the guards, but they were left alone, each with their own reasons to be furious or discontent. All was related to the bandits they had found still treading around the wagons, a small band that had attacked them on sight. 

There had been no survivors among the merchants, except some hostages taken by men which the group hadn't managed to track. Khalid had taken a bad wound at his left shoulder, one that Jaheira's minor healing spells, of divine origin though they were, hadn't been able to heal well.

Xzar hadn't found his new robe and was being all sulky and kept pouting like a child whenever someone addressed him. Montaron's only reply to anything was a new insult or an unintelligible grumbled line. This state that was due to the lack of any loot from the caravan, except a marked small fistula made of enamel, which they had found next to the body of a young man whose clothes bore the same sigil. It had identified the caravan as belonging to Entar Silvershield, a Duke from the city of Baldur's Gate, and the dead boy had probably been his son, Eddard. In order to claim any sort of reward, they'd have to travel all the way to the father.

As for Vendice and Imoen, their slightly younger spirits, though shaken by the discovery, had gotten over the incident much quicker. Their only regret was that they hadn't found the fistula before Montaron and now the halfling held it. Instead of the good deed they could perform, the halfling was adamant in his decision to ask for a reward. From the heroes they had hoped to be, the two girls were suddenly traveling with some... selfish mercenary.

"I'm ditching these two as soon as we've no more need of them," the bard whispered to Imoen as they reached the large obelisk in the town's central square.

"For now, I just wanna sleep," the rogue yawned in response.

"Me too," agreed Vendice, pointing to a shifty man that lurked out front of a large building ahead. "This guy looks familiar with the place; maybe we could ask him about a good inn."

The two led the group toward the lone figure, trying to look casual and as if they hadn't noticed him at all. They didn't even have to find a suitable way to engage in a conversation, for it was he that approached them directly first. Though hooded and cloaked, he was obviously slender and lacked in physical strength; sneaky as he appeared, it didn't seem he would require such a skill anyway. A few strands of silky brown hair came out from below the hood, but Vendice and Imoen agreed that it was a man, not a woman.

When he spoke, he confirmed their beliefs. "Hail, adventurers" he greeted the entire party at once, his voice soft and tone friendly and respectful. A gloved hand came out from the long folds of his cloak and waved to them; then, he tossed his head in a move that held the pretense of elegance and the hood fell off, revealing the bright countenance of a human, marked by big blue eyes and a sly-looking smile.

"Hiya," said a surprisingly forward Imoen, flushing a little.

That caused Vendice to glance at her as if she were a stranger. "Err..." the half-elven bard babbled. "What interest of yours is it that we have piqued?"

"Oh, not mine, really," the man spoke fluidly, while his smile broadened and his eyes lingered on the red-haired rogue. "But you look capable enough. Say... how would you like a well-paying job as bodyguards for my mistress?"

"No way," snapped Vendice, who had instantly categorized the man as 'hiding something'. "I'm hungry; and tired. Find some other fool to do it."

The bard had already begun to turn and was half-facing Jaheira and Khalid, who seemed to agree with her decision, when Imoen spoke. "But Vendice," the rogue protested. "We kinna need the money, yanno?"

"Great deal," mumbled Montaron sarcastically. "Show 'im we're broke. Now he'll be paying us less."

"We're not that desperate," Vendice's voice rose in outrage, then she paused when the hands she had shoved in her pockets to gain confirmation only found two coins. "Uhh..." She imagined the situation in the others' pockets would be the same. "Right. Tell us about your mistress." She whipped around and flashed her most innocent smile to the stranger, followed by an apologetic shrug.

The man laughed heartily. "I'm Garrick," he said, holding out a hand to Imoen. The rogue took it and shook faintly, holding it a while longer than she should have. "I work for Silke Rosena," Garrick continued, winking to her discreetly. "She's the most skilled musician and actor along the Sword Coast."

Vendice's ego, though it had no accomplishments to be based on, immediately felt stung by that remark. "Save us the praise," she said coldly. "How much is she paying?"

The man paused and blinked, a bit disconcerted by her abrupt interruption. However, when he recovered, he still didn't move to the point. "She's to play at the Duchal palace before the month's done. The problem is some thugs have been hired by Feldepost to hurt her bad, because she didn't perform at his Inn when she was supposed to. Can't blame her for not showing up, what with a villain like Feldepost running the place."

All along, Vendice had been listening with her arms crossed on her chest, tapping the paved ground with her foot. She faced his new, pleading smile with a roll of her eyes. "How. Much?" she asked, feeling a sudden urge to smack this idiot.

"She needs mercenaries to protect her until she's ready to go to Baldur's Gate." A small look directly at Vendice and Garrick hurried to add the required answer before the girl should leap at him. "About 300 gold. What do you think?"

"Lead the way," sighed Vendice, rubbing her temple.

Imoen was more than content to be the first that followed Garrick, while the bard stayed behind with Jaheira and Khalid, trying to calm down. They were being led along the large main street, toward the corner it formed with a slightly darker one that came to cross it.

"Are you sure about this, child?" Jaheira asked her.

"No," Vendice answered, still fuming.

"We'll be needing the money if you want to eat tonight," Montaron grumbled from behind.

"Pie," said a delighted Xzar, and that was the single word he uttered.

"Shut up, you useless cretins," mumbled Vendice, quietly enough to be heard only by Jaheira, who smiled at the remark, if only slightly.

They soon stopped just outside the thick shadows another structure cast across the intersection of the two streets. A woman emerged from there, wearing a mage's robes and a hoodless cloak to protect her bare shoulders and arms from the cold. She held a silver staff with both hands, keeping it ready even as her dark eyes scoured each member of the party. Finally, she wiggled her nose slightly and, holding her head up, spoke.

"Greetings mercenaries," she said with an air of grandeur and a voice as artificially sociable as they came. "I am Silke, thespian extraordinaire."

Vendice bit back her stingy remark and allowed Jaheira to reply for her. "Speak your mind, woman," said the druid. "We do not have time for countless pleasantries."

Silke glared, but then tossed her head, shoving her nose even higher in the air, and managed to appear disinterested and superior once more. "How much has my aide offered to you?" she asked.

"300 gold pieces," replied a cheerful Imoen, playing with a strand of her hair in that cute way of hers and eyeing Garrick.

"Just like you told me," added the man, bowing slightly to his mistress, but still holding the rogue's gaze.

"I'll raise your wage to 400," Silke announced coldly, making it seem as if she was rich enough to toss sacks of gold out the window and not care. Vendice felt a sudden urge to strangle her. She didn't budge, though, and the incredibly conceited woman continued. "You must dispose of the ruffians when they come to threaten me," she began to give more directions. "I would advise you to strike fast. Whatever you do: don't speak to them. One of them is a mage whose mystic words can sway the wisest of men."

"Uh-huh..." Vendice replied, looking perfectly calm and unaffected. _Don't speak to them?_ the voice seemed to be mirroring her thoughts. _That's clear manipulation._ Silke didn't notice when she joined in on the small glances Jaheira and Khalid were already exchanging.

Behind, Montaron's grumbling didn't fail to emerge. "Like I'd be sitting about to chatter with someone I'm going to kill."

It bothered Vendice to no end when Imoen chose to wait with Garrick instead of their group, but at least it took part of the attention Silke paid to them off the more intelligent part of the group. They managed to swap a few remarks when they thought it safe to do so and it became obvious that none of them (excepting Imoen most likely) believed a word of what they had been told. It was agreed that they would stay their attack until matters became clear, though Montaron didn't seem pleased by the prospect that they might lose the money.

About an hour later, three men showed up at the scene; they looked like they meant business, though not necessarily of a hostile nature. Silke shifted immediately and gestured the party to her side, whispering that they should be ready to strike. The only one that really readied a discreet weapon was Imoen, unaware of the scheming between the others and of the fact that they were only pretending to get ready.

The three men arrived, but looked rather polite and reserved when they stopped a few feet away and one of them stepped in front of the others. They all wore elegant tunics, embroidered with silken threads; they didn't look like ruffians at all. "Greetings, Silke," said their spokesman. "We're here as you've asked, and we have the..."

Silke hissed. "Don't try to threaten me!" she interrupted hostilely. "I won't be easy prey for you to beat on, I've brought friends!"

"What are you talking about?" The three men exchanged worried glances. "We're here with the gems that..."

This time, it wasn't just a hiss. "Shut up!" snarled Silke, then barked her orders. "STRIKE NOW! Kill them all!"

By that time, even Imoen had seen something fishy; no one moved. When the 'innocent victim' turned to look to the ones she had hired, she found Vendice's lips curled in a very pleased smirk. "Nice act, darling," said the half-elf, shaking her head with pity. "But you need more practice."

Silke gritted her teeth, to the point where they almost hurt. "Our deal is off!" she yelled, tossing her head again in a futile attempt to still look like a noble who was addressing peasants. "In any case, you're probably too cowardly to be any good in a fight. I'll deal with them myself, after I deal with you!"

As soon as she stopped talking, the woman raised both hands and began to utter the words of what was obviously a spell. The way it looked, it was aimed at Vendice. The party drew weapons and all hurried to stop her, but before they reached her, the spell had already been cast.

Vendice, who had held her ground, was as ready as one could be for such things and she threw herself to a side, dropping to her knees. Though the crash itself was painful to her knees and elbows, the Flame Arrow whistled past her head in the process, only inches away, and finally set an empty barrel behind aflame.

When she stood up, Vendice found the party in the process of receiving a potion as their reward, from the three men who were apparently merchants or something of the kind. Montaron, whose sword had apparently been the one to kill Silke, by the blood that still stained it, was searching the woman's body for any valuables. The rest of them, a pouty Imoen included, were circling Garrick.

Much to his satisfaction, Montaron had found two potions and some gold by the time Vendice came to his side. She demanded part of the loot quietly, by just holding out a hand; the halfling was reluctant to part, but he handed her one potion and half of the gold. She let him get away with that, figuring the given half should be enough money for the rest of them anyway. Furthermore, she bent over and picked up Silke's staff, weighing it in one hand for a second.

"It's a good, elegant make," she admitted finally, offering it to Xzar. "There you go. Hold on to the pretty staff, mage. There, that's it." She was satisfied enough when the necromancer dropped his old chunk of wood and hugged the new weapon.

"Now, Mr. Garrick!" Vendice had become ironic already when she blended with the group of others. None seemed to mind her intervention, which deflated her slightly.

"I guess she had it coming," Garrick was just saying with a small shrug. "You can't be evil like her and expect to get away with it."

"Which means you should not be getting away either," stated a determined Jaheira.

"He just... needed a job," Imoen defended meekly.

"And I'm out of one now," dared Garrick. "Maybe I could... join with you? And make up for this deception, of course."

"Whoah, whoah," Vendice interfered, this time successfully. "Hold it right there. NO WAY you're coming anywhere close to us again. Go on, get lost!"

Garrick swallowed tightly, then sighed out his heaviest breath. "Ah, well, I guess it will give me the opportunity to work on this new ballad I've been thinking of..." He seemed to cheer up as he thought of that. "I bet you'll never guess who the protagonists are!"

"One more thing," Vendice stopped him from leaving yet with a triumphant and superior grin. "Tell me where a good inn or tavern is."

* * *

Vendice was fuming. She had told the others she needed to be alone and that she would go get a drink to calm her fiery temper and dull her senses, then she would come back to her room and sleep. Now, that she found herself downstairs, there was another alternative that presented itself as far more appealing than that. 

The cause for this was simple. As soon as they had set foot into the Red Sheaf, the tavern Garrick had suggested they should go to, another bounty hunter, a rough dwarf wearing heavy armor, had approached them. During the fight, Imoen had been wounded and she was now unconscious, waiting for a cleric to arrive, given that Jaheira wasn't able to cast any more spells before she would sleep.

"That scoundrel knew the bounty hunter would be there," Vendice decreed, mumbling to herself. _If I were you, I'd kill him for that._

Once the decision was made, it was made. "Shouldn't be that difficult to find him, eh?" the bard mused as she opened the tavern's main door and stepped out into the night.


	6. Not the Luckiest Night

**Author's Note:**_ All right, I've been suffering terribly from writer's block on this story, so I'm not sure how coherent or good this chapter is. I've written on it with several huge pauses in-between, so it might appear as a bit... off._

* * *

_Depend on the rabbit's foot if_

_you will, but remember it didn't_

_work for the rabbit._ -- R.E. Shay

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**Not the Luckiest Night**

There are times when the tides of one's life are turned by an event so unexpected that it takes a while for the person to even realize it happened. Such is the way of fate for some, to take away that which they thought to be their purpose, causing them to sit back and wonder why they exist in the first place. The mind then goes through a struggle whose only conclusion is a series of _more_ questions that many have tried to answer but none succeeded. One feels lost and alone, and all in all meaningless.

Such was the situation of the obscure bard by the name of Garrick that night. But, instead of trying to answer questions, he had chosen to drown his uncertainties and confusion, his worry for the future and his lack of purpose in a plethora of wine glasses. And if there was any activity where companions were never difficult to find, then drinking was certainly it.

But _that_ particular person Garrick had never expected to come drum her fingers on the back of his chair, trying to get his attention and smirking in an openly malevolent manner. For a moment, he thought he had drank too much and was only imagining the rather fragile blond-haired girl, clumsy in her chain mail, but otherwise adamant in her decision to intimidate him. Her green eyes bore into his intensely, almost as if she was thinking to grow sharp talons and shred his flesh to pieces; she wasn't much, and yet she made for the most terrifying sight Garrick had ever been faced with.

"Hello," he began, trying to smile. "Err..." Through a cloud of what looked like ages past, he could remember their previous encounter, also the first, and the name came to him with some difficulty. "Vendice." He nodded, almost as if trying to reassure himself he had gotten it right.

The only response came in the form of a hand rising up to his throat and grabbing, then pulling with clutched fingers, until he was forced to stand up and close in to those frightfully glazed eyes.

"Garrick," she hissed coldly, superiorly, as if she had trapped a simple fly, while she herself was a goddess of immense power and grandeur.

None of the two looked around, the young man because he was much too preoccupied with fearing for his physical integrity and the girl because she knew all too well her total control of every living thing in the room would diminish if she did. At the moment, as it sadly happens when the crowd is faced with something grand and individual, no one really cared about poor Garrick, because everyone was simply fascinated with the aura of unbelievable self-confidence and domination of everything that Vendice emanated.

He took a shaky breath when she released him, right after she had spat out the name, and shoved him away like a noble paladin would do with a despicable sinner that refused to repent, or with a criminal who was beyond atonement.

"Follow," she ordered after that, icily, even as she turned around and flashed a few of the most curious figures in the room a sharp glance each.

There was no room for opposition or denial, no room for an interruption in the way she had done everything, with that detailed perfection every mortal who had an amount of pride wished to achieve. She had somehow pulled off that kind of chiseled manner capable of reducing everyone to silence, of subduing all that was around. Things like that only happened in stories of heroic deeds, Garrick told himself in a stupefied fashion, as he followed, his clarity of mind inspired to return by that very same attitude. Perhaps it was what it meant to be a leader – the ability to affect those around you by simply doing what you wished to do.

The young bard found himself striding behind the half-elven girl before he could even question why, following her out of the tavern. The impact her steely eyes and proud manner had made on the tavern's patrons was enough to prevent them from gathering a crowd, though admittedly the eyes of the curious did not leave them until they exited and placed the door in the way.

Outside, it was dark and rather foggy, a typical chilly evening that caused the heat accumulated through the day to rise up from the ground and fill the air with milky vapors. Almost without realizing it, Garrick shivered, as some bad feeling or another raked its claws along his spine. Nevertheless, he stopped on the veranda, away from any window, where Vendice also rested. Everything about her was different, he noticed, almost as if a single breath of the cool air had been enough to take the weight of whatever had possessed her off her shoulders.

"Shut up!" the girl snarled, managing to stupefy Garrick completely, before she whipped around to face him, arms akimbo. "What have you to say in your defense, hmm? Sending me off to get killed by bounty hunters, are you?"

"What?" the young man blinked in surprise, desperately trying to make some sense of it all.

"Don't act like you don't know," she snapped. "Won't work with me, so you'd better spit it all out. Were you gonna split profits?"

He regarded her incredulously, with an eyebrow resting slightly higher than the other, wondering what in the nine hells she was talking about. She looked pretty serious, for someone who was spewing out such unfounded nonsense, which could only mean she believed whole-heartedly that she spoke truth. Now, he needed only to determine what that 'truth' of hers was...

Garrick cleared his throat and smiled charmingly. "If you'd be so kind as to explain yourself, I might--"

She interrupted him with a low growl, looking almost out of her mind; or maybe that was her problem in the first place.

"Confess!" she nearly shouted, only to tilt her head in an attentive manner the very next moment, as if she were listening to someone speak. Her attitude changed again, with a preoccupied smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "It's not like I have all night for you, y'know?"

"Listen," Garrick tried not to look completely awed and not to act sympathetic, as he would towards someone who had lost their sanity. "It's not usually my style, but I'll be direct with you. You're acting like a crazed harpy and I have no idea what you're talking about."

She looked genuinely baffled, at least, though incredulity still rested on her features in no small amount, which was what made it so blatant in the first place. Finally, she shook her head, and Garrick could swear she had muttered something along the lines of "Shut up!" once again.

"You know what?" she sounded considerably calmer when she spoke again. "Let's see how the others judge the matter." She didn't even seem to consider he might have a word to say in that, but merely grabbed him by the arm and began to stalk decidedly in the direction of the Red Sheaf.

"Uhh..." Garrick mumbled confusedly, trying to decide whether it was worth resisting. He decided it wasn't, since the others hadn't looked as unstable as Vendice. "What matter, exactly?" he asked, as he followed her, giving up on even the attempt to look as if he wasn't being dragged forcibly.

"Oh, please," the girl didn't budge from her all-knowing aura. "You're the one who sent us into the Red Sheaf; your friend, the bounty hunter, attacked almost as soon as we entered."

Garrick sighed.

* * *

Montaron's evening had so far been the exact opposite of the relaxation and entertainment he had imagined with relief when he had found the money on Silke's body. First off, the dwarven bounty hunter who had charged at them with only too little in the way of an explanation was broke and had no valuables on him; even the armor was old and Vendice and Khalid had nearly ruined his wooden shield completely when they had battered him down. As for the axe, it was too heavy for Montaron to carry around and none of the others seemed to care about it, despite his various attempts to get their attention. 

Then, the idiot mage had simply _had_ to go get himself some pie, after fishing some gold coins out of Montaron's pocket without even asking first. Why he put up with that, the rogue couldn't quite explain; except, maybe, because his superiors wouldn't have been as pleased as he if any harm should have come to Xzar. At any rate, the prospect of sitting at the same table with a childish imbecile who was munching on pumpkin pie like a hamster didn't much appeal to Monty; even Jaheira's company was preferable to that.

The druid, however, had found it fit to send him off to find the missing Vendice, while she and her husband tended to the pink-haired annoyance. For all he cared, Montaron liked her a lot better unconscious, because she didn't open her mouth to speak and didn't constantly stare at him and spy on everything he did.

He exited the Red Sheaf Inn, grumbling assiduously, only to lay eyes upon a pack of Flaming Fist soldiers, fully armored and everything, who had gathered around Silke's body. Montaron would have cursed their group's negligence, but there was no time now, when he needed to sneak past the party. It wasn't a really difficult thing to do for someone of his size, especially with the many bushes surrounding the inn, and he soon emerged further along the street. Now he really needed to find the half-elven girl before she got them into any trouble.

He soon found out there was no need to look far, for Vendice was just heading his way, dragging an exasperated-looking Garrick right behind her.

"For the fifth time," the young man was just saying, as he rolled his eyes rigorously. "I've had _nothing_ to do with the bounty hunter. It was a _coincidence_."

"Psst!" Montaron interjected, hurrying to cross their path. "Look, before ye go marching right in their midst!" He vehemently pointed toward the group of soldiers and guards.

"You should have moved Silke's body!" Garrick realized, trying to pull himself free of Vendice. "Let me go; it wasn't me that struck her down."

The half-elf only tightened her grip of him even more and smirked defiantly. "No, you were her partner in crime," she retorted, then became sarcastic. "That's _much_ better, indeed."

Montaron grumbled, then turned his back on the two and began to walk back toward the Inn, doing his best to look as if he was just arriving and was completely oblivious to what had gone on. Vendice, with Garrick involuntarily in tow, followed close behind, attempting to do the very same, more or less. As they all expected, one of the guards noticed them and signaled that they should stop, then began to approach. He regarded the trio with scouring eyes, trying to determine if they were suspicious or not; Montaron felt like cursing again when Vendice hurried to let go of Garrick and smiled innocently while her 'prisoner' rubbed his aching arm.

The Flaming Fist mercenary apparently deemed Montaron as the one in charge of their small group, because he turned to the halfling and gave him a more intense and attentive gaze than he did the others. "Do you happen to know anything about what has occurred here?" he asked, pointing over his shoulder, back to the crime scene.

"Of course he does," Vendice replied gleefully, before Montaron could even blink. "He's the one that killed her, after all!"

* * *

Elminster rolled a sigh down into his beard, as the words from the semi-distant scene taking place in front of the Red Sheaf were carried over to him by the spell he had used to enhance his hearing. He had hoped the young one, Gorion's ward, would not begin by causing so much trouble; but hope was often the last resort of people who knew the exact opposite would happen. 

Picking up his staff, the aged spellcaster adjusted a pair of glasses on his nose, then lightly slammed the weapon's lower end against the ground, muttering something. His next move was to point it at the wooden barn nearby, with the effects manifesting themselves almost immediately. Red flames sprang to life in just an instant, rising from the structure's base and licking their way upwards along the walls, casting a mass of light over the garden that surrounded it. An orange glow engulfed a portion of sky above, causing the stars to pale in comparison.

Satisfied, the mage nodded to himself, then turned away and began to walk toward the group he had been listening to for quite a while. A couple more guards had advanced on Vendice and her two companions, apparently with the intent of questioning a bit more and asking for each other's opinion before they did anything. Elminster cleared his throat when he was close enough.

"Good evening, my good men," he said, tugging at his hat to adjust its position on his head. "I regret having to take thy precious time, but would you be kind enough to look that way?" He pointed one of his gnarled fingers in the direction he had just arrived from, continuing to look calm, as if nothing was happening. "I'm afraid it is quite beyond an old man like me to help in there."

The guards looked alarmed and didn't mind him much, too busy with signaling to their companions and showing them the light that poured over the top of a house. They had little doubt regarding what it was, though all of them failed to either notice or wonder why the mist was just as thick in there as anywhere else. One by one, the Flaming Fist men and local guards alike forgot what they were doing before and fled toward the scene of the burning barn. One of them remained, to make sure Vendice and her companions didn't leave.

"Indulge an old man," Elminster addressed that remaining soldier. "What has happened here?" He looked surprised when his eyes fell upon Silke's dead body.

"This halfling here and his accomplices murdered this woman," the Flaming Fist mercenary solemnly replied, keeping his official posture. "They have admitted as much."

"Well," Vendice found it fit to interject. "I also said that she attacked first. What were my friends to do – just let her kill me?"

"We have yet to clarify that," the soldier replied, stubbornly holding on to his ideas.

"Excuse me, good Sir," Elminster said blandly. "I am a mage of no small repute myself; and I can tell you that this woman cast an offensive spell before she died."

"That is most interesting, Sir," the guard replied, sighing profusely. He eyed Vendice and her group and frowned, spending a few moments in a highly undecided state of mind; finally, he nodded. "You may go, if the old man will remain to testify in your favor."

"I will," Elminster nodded his agreement.

Vendice looked at him, and the old mage saw all the questions in her eyes, but there was no way they could find any answer with the Flaming Fist mercenary still standing there. Reluctantly, the half-elven girl turned to depart, glaring at Garrick and muttering something about how he was allowed to do whatever he wished, that she believed him.

The old mage smiled, though no one noticed that; he approved. "Fine imagery, wouldn't you say?" he asked the soldier, who gave him an odd look. But indeed, the mage was very proud of the illusion he had created.

* * *

By the time Vendice reached the door to her room, key in hand, she was sour and weary and had begun to feel awfully filthy again; besides, now 'lonesome' had come to complete the list of her current attributes. Jaheira hadn't allowed her to share Imoen's room, on account of the possibility that she could disturb the young rogue's rest and healing process. At least her friend – her sister – was going to be all right. 

With that thought, Vendice began to unlock the door... only to find that the key would not even budge inside the lock. Puzzled, she tried the other way, only to hear an odd noise coming from inside her room; she had apparently just locked the door and startled someone inside in the process, causing them to hit something and tumble to the floor.

"Who in the nine the hells are you?" she hissed through the door, trying to do as little as possible in the way of being heard by everyone in the other rooms.

Silence.

"You can spend your night in there, if you don't answer me," she threatened, blood already beginning to boil in the veins of her generally impatient self.

"I'm a thief, okay?" came a gruff, muttered reply from the inside, on the spiteful tone of a man. "Who did you think it was? Yer momma?" Obviously, the idiot didn't like being trapped in there and caught in the act, but at least he had enough sense to know there was no way out. Of course, he could jump out the window, but the guards that still roamed around the Inn were very likely to notice him.

_Psst,_ the voice drew Vendice's attention, sounding highly conspiratorial. _I have an idea; this could be interesting. _Vendice listened to it carefully, then began to laugh, unable to hold back the urge to express so much amusement. She heard the thief mutter a few insults and curses addressed to her, but didn't mind that, for the sake of applying what the voice had suggested.

"I'll let you out," she spoke through the door. "If... you sing me a song."

Silence.

"Go on," urged the bard. "I'm not hearing anything."

"You're crazy, Miss," came the retort, spat out between the man's teeth.

"And you're stuck in there," she replied carelessly, shrugging. "All right, then, I'll go call a guard."

There was more silence coming from the room, so she began to pull away, quite disappointed; there was no way the guy was getting away with it if he didn't sing.

"Hum-hum, hummm, hum-hum," someone began, which caused her to stop and clutch her stomach as she burst out laughing in a way far beyond even the pretense of control.

"Stop, stop! That's enough!" she demanded, between a couple of giggling fits that strove to still emerge. _I swear,_ the voice worded out the thought for her. _I've never heard anyone who has less ear for music than this one._ With that, Vendice had to fully agree.

"Come on, get out of there," she said, shaking her head and grinning from ear to ear as she unlocked the door and cracked it open. She pulled away from it, ready to defend herself if the thief wanted to attack her.

He didn't. He was an average man, tall and rather skinny and bony, draped in a hooded black cape, and he was quick on his way, once he had glared at her in the process of exiting. Still unable to wipe the amusement from her features, Vendice proceeded to enter her own room, and ran smack into Xzar, who stood staring at her with wide eyes and an oblivious smile.

"Did you like my singing?" he asked gleefully, sounding hopeful and excited.

"Uhh..." Vendice babbled, feeling the sudden need to slap her forehead. "Very much, Xzar, _very_ much..."


	7. Surprise, Surprise

_Misfortunes have their life and their limits, their _

_sickness and their health. We undo ourselves by _

_impatience._ -- Michel de Motaigne

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

**Surprise, Surprise**

That morning, Vendice felt a particular need to address a small prayer to Oghma, the God whose ways she had been taught in Candlekeep and the supposed patron of bards, among other things. She was certain Imoen would always do that in the morning, though how exactly a rogue like her was comfortable with such a deity remained somewhat a mystery. (At least it gave a measure of justification to the interest in magic she had been expressing lately.)

The bard didn't pray, though; she stopped where she always did – at the simple thought of it. To her, it seemed naive to think that some divine entity would stop and listen to the praises and pleas of a single follower (unless they were a priest and, as such, very important for the fact that they spread the word and brought others to the faith). Besides, two equally worthy people could pray to the same God and ask for two opposite things to happen; then, what would the deity do? That reasoning had brought Vendice to the firm conviction that the Gods decided what aid they provided regardless of how much their followers prayed and much more likely in relation with what they did. Prayer was, therefore, a simple resort of weaker spirits, who felt safer through it; she didn't need to pray, only to stick to the proper code of conduct... whichever that was.

Shrugging and dismissing the matter once again, Vendice made her way out of the room and stopped to knock on Imoen's door. The redhead came to open it with some delay, but greeted her warmly with a broad welcoming smile; she looked funny with the comb stuck in a difficult portion of her hair and left hanging. It vividly reminded Vendice of the difficulties she had experienced with her own mane a bit earlier.

"Jaheira and Khalid have gone shopping," Imoen announced as she returned to the mirror and resumed her combing. "Said we need food for the road."

"Well, many thanks to them for letting me know," Vendice replied moodily, flopping seated in a chair.

"Why?" Imoen replied. "Whatcha need?"

"I told you all yesterday," the bard grumbled. "I'd like to buy a musical instrument."

"I could go with ya," the thief offered, checking herself out in the mirror. Satisfied with the result, she placed the comb down.

"Yes, and thank you," Vendice was quick to reply, having been expecting her friend's suggestion. "But we don't know Beregost like they do, which means we'll waste more time. They could have just waited for us."

Imoen giggled. "Maybe they just wanted some time alone."

Vendice was about to rebuff that, as well, when she noticed the redhead had produced an unfamiliar purse from her backpack. And the few small objects she was pulling out...

"Where did you get _those_?"

"Remember that rich-looking lady who stepped on my foot when we got here?" Imoen asked nonchalantly, with a small grin.

Vendice eyed the make-up kit; she and Imoen liked to play with those, but they saw ever so few of them back in Candlekeep. The rogue noticed her looks and her grin widened.

"I'll give ya some," she offered, beginning to head for the door. "But you'll have to catch me first!" And with that, she darted out of the room.

Smiling, suddenly in a much better mood, Vendice sprang out of her seat and hurried to chase her friend along the corridor and down the stairs, into the common room.

* * *

Montaron surveyed the table with a critical eye, trying to see what they had been offered for breakfast. Bread... eggs... cheese... cold steak from the other day... fresh milk... The halfling slapped Xzar's hand away in time, before the necromancer could dip his finger in the white substance. Then, grumbling, he grabbed the pitcher and filled a mug for himself and one for the mage. Now the fool could do whatever he wanted with his share.

He was just about to take a bite of bread and cheese when that annoying red-haired brat drifted by and snatched a roll for herself, managing to spill his milk in the process.

"Sorry," she giggled cheerfully, then sprinted for the door and made the quickest exit the halfling had seen.

Immediately after that, but just late enough to have missed the door closing behind her friend, the other girl, the blond one, found her way down the stairs, tripping over the lowest step and stumbling forward. She regained her balance soon enough and and stopped to scan the room, undoubtedly looking for the brat; not finding her, she made her way over to their table, casting an awkward glance to Xzar who was just mixing small pieces of steak into his milk.

Montaron was rather busy drying the portion of table in front of him with a rag he had been using for a napkin, but he still found time to glare at her, conveying the message that she wasn't welcome there.

"What d'ye want?" he asked gruffly, setting the rag aside and resuming breakfast.

"Where... did she... go?" the girl – Vendice, aye, that was her name – demanded, still catching her breath.

"Out," Montaron replied between two bites; that was as much as he would bother and, if she expected any help searching, then she was wasting her time.

"She can wait," Vendice muttered, then she turned to face Xzar, waiting for the necromancer to notice.

The mage, however, was quite concentrated on his current activity and the girl had to whistle loudly. Only then did he stop; he withdrew his hands to his lap and looked up at her calmly.

"What were you doing in my room last night?" Vendice inquired, apparently trying her best at patience.

"Why, I was following that thief around and _he_ went there," the answer came from Xzar on an unusually serious tone.

Well, this looked interesting; maybe not useful, but no doubt amusing. Montaron continued to eat, but pricked up his ears no less.

"Following him around," Vendice echoed incredulously. "I see. And, if I may know, why would you be doing that?"

"To learn the tricks of the trade, of course," Xzar beamed proudly.

"And you didn't care he was trying to steal my possessions?"

Xzar shook his head and Montaron simply had to snort, which earned him a sharp glare from Vendice.

"I guess I understand why he didn't mind your presence, then," the girl sighed, then her attention returned fully to Montaron. "Be here when I return or we'll leave without you."

The halfling watched her depart and didn't bother to give a reply; she should know he didn't care, anyway. They were all headed for Nashkel and, as such, likely to meet again even if she did leave by herself.

"Monty!" Xzar interrupted him in an irritatingly high-pitched voice.

"I told ye not to be callin' me that," the halfling grumbled. "What?"

The necromancer settled down again abruptly and cleared his throat with self-importance. "I believe the two fussy half-elves to be Harpers."

Montaron nearly choked on his next bite and eyed the mage awkwardly. "Ye'd best not be ramblin'," he warned. "What's yer proof of that?"

"I overheard them speaking of a letter they must send," Xzar offered his argument. "In which they would express certain suspicions of our own... allegiance."

"Curses," Montaron muttered. "And they be headin' for Nashkel, same as we. Keep an eye on 'em, mage."

"A sound plan, Montaron," the necromancer seemed to think he cared about getting his approval. "But perhaps we should secure some supplies of our own, just in case?"

"Aye," the halfling nodded grimly. "An' I know just the place. But I ain't movin' anywhere 'till I be done eating."

Xzar shrugged and his prolonged attention span was lost again.

* * *

Imoen had run a long way and turned quite a few corners, enjoying the feel of the wind in her hair and clothes and taking occasional bites of bread which did not go well with her stomach in such a rush. She was in front of a homely-looking establishment marked as the _Jovial Juggler_ when she finally noticed she had lost Vendice completely. Stopping, she began to retrace her steps, taking her time, when a familiar figure came right in front of her from around the corner.

"Garrick!" the girl gasped, then, realizing it had probably been a bit out of place, she flushed. "Erm... heya."

He seemed to be scanning the area, probably for her other companions, but when he spotted nothing a broad smile came across his lips.

"You are assuredly a sight for sore eyes, Imoen," he said pleasantly, taking a small bow, apparently very proud of the fact that he could remember her name.

Imoen giggled. "How're ya doing?"

"Well enough," the young man replied. "How about yourself? I trust your friend's mood has improved? Last night she had gone mad over some injury she claimed you had suffered... but I am glad to see you in good health."

She let him finish, nodding patiently. She kind of liked his air of self-importance, the natural way he adopted it.

"We fought a bounty hunter," she cheerfully explained. "This one got me, but I'll get better at the fighting thing and then they'll see!"

By the time she was done, Garrick's lips had spread into a broad grin. Shaking his head, he began to climb the short staircase in front of the Jovial Juggler, his eyes not leaving the redhead as they twinkled with amusement.

"Listen..." he said, a bit preoccupied. "I'm supposed to meet some friends here and I'm late... Maybe you'd like to have a drink with us?"

He liked her; internally, Imoen was beaming proudly. The only problem was Vendice... but the thief was sure her friend could find her way around all by herself.

"Sure," she agreed, tagging along."

She was up for eternal moodiness from her sister, but it didn't really matter right then.

* * *

Sighing, Eleris watched the thick, sturdy rope as it was being passed on from one paladin to the other, then he traced its length with his eyes, down to his bound wrists. He stared at that, standing docilely to the side and waiting for the long moment to be over in a dramatic pose, which he imagined as the epitome of martyrdom. He avoided a direct glance at the other two. Watching Ajantis take off his boots in order to relieve them of gravel and other such nuisances was the last thing he would have liked to be doing. If only the bonds weren't so strong and he could at least hope to wrestle his hands out of them. But no. Them paladins had _had_ to go and do the job properly.

Of course, this was nothing new. After all, it was only the fifth time in two weeks that Ajantis had caught him stealing. All due to a strange – and _extremely_ annoying – set of coincidences, which only made it even worse an ordeal.

"Hey, Ajantis," he began conversationally, bringing his eyes back up when he heard the man stand back to his feet to test his boots.

"What?" came a pretty disinterested response, tinged with a disappointingly small amount of irritation.

Eleris made sure his grin was as smug-looking as possible when he gestured toward the bushes nearby. "Nature calls, you know."

Ajantis rolled his eyes insensibly, but his friend looked slightly less inclined to ignore everything.

"Maybe we could untie one hand?" the other paladin offered. His name was Pais, if Eleris could recall well. "As long as one of us still holds the rope, we'll know it in time if he tries to escape."

"Just don't mind him," Ajantis replied, glaring at their prisoner. "He'll survive."

"But--" Pais looked genuinely surprised.

"Aw," Eleris interrupted nonchalantly. "Don't worry; Ajantis is just annoyed because he fell for this trick last time and lost me."

The two paladins exchanged a few exasperated glances before setting back in motion. Eleris, of course, had no other choice than to follow... or was it?

He gave a forceful tug at the rope, Pais' hands jerked forward, his grip lost some strength and... Ajantis was there to grab on and save the day. Then he slipped on a small rock and crashed straight into his friend; both went tumbling down in a pile and Eleris was free just as he thought his attempt had failed.

"Sound move, Ajantis," he adapted immediately and couldn't keep from poking some fun while he scurried away as uncomfortably quick as possible with his hands tied. The two still had a great chance to catch up, even despite the hindering weight of their plating.

Eleris left the road and sought shelter with a small group of trees, constantly glancing behind him to check on the paladins. He hid behind a large trunk, with the intention of skipping over to the next, unseen, only... he crashed into something else as he was turning from one of his clumsy attempts to get rid of the ropes while running. The force of the impact propelled him back against the tree he had just left and a surge of pain crossed his back sharply.

"How sweet," he said lamely as he stared up straight into the dumb eyes of an ogre.

Eleris was barely even conscious of his reflex, but he still vaguely found himself slipping to the ground when the ogre lurched forth, swinging a massive, crudely made morning star. The next thing he actually realized was that a rain of splinters and rind was pouring into his hair, while the dim-witted creature had chosen to try and extract its morning star from where it was lodged in the tree's trunk, right above his head. He was lucky ogres weren't too bright; had it really wanted to crush him, which it probably did, this one would have been perfectly able to just tread upon his chest, since it comfortably rested a bare inch away from the oversized feet.

Rationally, Eleris knew he was supposed to be crawling away quickly, before the creature either actually got that idea or simply managed to free the weapon. But the truth was panic had frozen him entirely. He could very well stare and think of the many unappealing possibilities in the blink of an eye; actually moving to avoid them was a whole other deal. Finally, the ogre managed to pull its morning star free, it swung back for another bludgeoning strike and... it was then that Ajantis' shouts reached its ears and distracted it.

The ogre went tramping after the two arriving paladins and Eleris was left in peace to swallow a dry lump in his throat. He was so very relieved to see Ajantis and Pais... enough so that he passed out, succumbing to sweet oblivion.

When he came back to his senses, his hands weren't bound anymore and his wrists throbbed with the flow of blood trying to re-establish its normal course. Instead, the ropes now kept his legs together, all the way up to the knees; no one could possibly hope to untie that in less than three times more minutes it would take the paladins to notice the effort.

Speaking of... Eleris sought the two out with his eyes and found them close enough, at the base of a small cliff. Ajantis was just helping a limping Pais to get settled down in the grass so that he could take a look at the wound, whichever that was. Eleris didn't care much about that. What he stared intently at were the two girdles dangling from Ajantis' arm under the shape of oversized bracelets.

"Hey!"

When he didn't get any attention, Eleris let out a sharp whistle, which immediately brought him the glare of a reproachful Ajantis.

"What?!" came the paladin's exasperated snap.

"You know," Eleris accompanied his words with a groan caused by his attempt to inch closer to the two, so that he wouldn't have to speak so loud. "You guys are broke. And so am I..." – he lowered his voice to a small mutter – "...Also thanks to you."

"This really isn't the best time for your whining, elf," Ajantis dismissed him immediately, meaning to return to his companion, who looked like he was in a considerable deal of pain.

"I'm not whining," Eleris protested in a fake hurt tone. "But I heard talk of an ogre that takes girdles and belts from travelers. Back at the Friendly Arm... there was this guy named Unshey who said he'd pay some gold if someone were to return his Girdle of Piercing."

"These are the only ones that looked magical," Ajantis replied, shoving his two looted objects toward the thief.

Both girdles fell somewhere between his spot and theirs. Eleris stared intently at them, vaguely aware of the healing incantation Ajantis was reciting to help Pais. Finally, he looked back just in time to see the two heading up to retrieve the objects, Pais in good condition once more.

"It's the thinner one, made from intertwined, delicate strands of leather," Eleris announced when they were by his side.

"And this one?" Ajantis waved the other girdle in front of him.

The elf looked more carefully. It was broader and thicker, clumsily dyed and overall just not Eleris' kind of gear, but no doubt imbued with magic as well.

"I'm not sure what that does, but I think it's powerful," the thief mused insecurely, frowning a little and continuing to stare into space with narrowed eyes.

"Well, let's see."

By the time Eleris snapped back from his thoughts and into reality, Ajantis had already unbuckled his old girdle and was replacing it with the new one. Humans could be so brash sometimes it was a wonder they still existed at all. Eleris really hadn't said 'powerful' meant 'beneficial'.

"I would advise against--" he began to warn the idiot, but...

The clasp was shut and, by the Seldarine, the effects were immediate. Eleris watched the impossibly quick transfiguration, lines and curves fading into new shapes, and realized what was happening a few moments before it was complete. He felt so much laughter build in his chest in one instant that there was no hope of controlling the fit; he doubled over as best he could, shaken by chuckles and rapidly losing all semblance of breath, while the stupefied expressions of the two paladins only fueled his amusement.

"Ajantis..." Pais finally gasped in shock horror. "I... I think you just turned into a woman."


End file.
